THE  DEVILS 
PLOUGHi^^ 


ANNff  FARQUH  AR 


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Works  of 
Anna  Farquhar 


The  Dcvirs  Plough 

With    coloured   frontispiece   from 

drawing  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
1  vol.,  library  12mo,  cloth,  gilt  top, 

$1.50. 

Her  Boston  Experiences 

Illustrated  by  Frank  O.  Small. 

1  vol.,  crown  16mo,  cloth,  gilt  top, 

$1.25. 

L.  C.  PAGE   &   COMPANY 
200  Summer  St.>  Boston,  Mass. 


COPVRIOMT  1801  8V    L.  C.  PAGE  «  COMPANY,  JNC. 


"  '  /  have  the  honour  to  accept  Monsieur  de 
Bouteville's  challenge ' " 

(Seepage  232) 
From  a  painting  by  Frank  T.  Merrill 


Cbe  Ocvil's  plough 

U/>e  R^omaLntic  History 
of  a  Soul  Conflict  ^  ^ 

By 
ANNA     FARQUHAR 

Author  of  "Her  Boston  Experiences,"  etc. 


With  a  Frontispiece  in  Colour  by 
FRANK  T.  MERRILL 


Copyright,  igoi 
By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(iNCORPORATHr)) 

All  rights  reserved 


Colonial  prrss 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Sinaonds  &  Co 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATED 
TO  MY  HUSBAND 


2135504 


Author's   Preface 

My  excuse  for  working  out  the  life  herein 
recorded  may  be  traced  back  to  a  sympathetic 
acquaintance  with  that  northwestern  territory  of 
North  American  Indian  romance  and  adventure, 
civilised  and  partially  tutored  into  the  Christian 
faith  by  the  unselfish  martyrdom  of  Jesuit  mis- 
sionaries, whose  courage  and  fortitude  under  bar- 
barous persecution  has  never  been  excelled  and 
seldom  equalled  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Following  close  upon  this  acquaintance  I,  for 
the  first  time,  met  with  Mr.  Parkman's  glowing 
history  of  the  adventurous  experiences  encoun- 
tered by  these  same  Catholics  in  New  France, 
and  the  combined  result  was  a  haunting  impres- 
sion of  the  romantic  possibilities  imbedded  in  that 
period  of  the  French  missionary's  existence  lead- 
ing up  to  his  life  of  exploration  and  martyrdom 
among  the  Indians. 

And  so  Father  Gaston  was  born  into  the  world 
of  fiction,  and  his  progenitor  indulges  the  hope 
that  this   missionary's   personal  experiences   may 


viii  Author's  Preface 

approach  somewhere  near  in  interest  those  of  his 
human  prototypes. 

The  French  court  of  Anne  of  Austria  and 
Mazarin,  whose  atmosphere  made  work  for  the 
Devil's  Plough,  was  to  some  extent  responsible 
for  the  Jesuit  decadence  beginning  to  prevail  at 
that  period.  Jn  this  Parisian  world  of  folly, 
mantled  in  false  piety,  Gaston  L'Artanges,  the 
celebrated  preacher  of  Paris,  developed  both  the 
weeds  and  flowers  of  his  complicated  nature ;  and 
from  out  his  great  weakness  there  grew  his  abiding 
strength. 


The   Devil's  Plough 

Chapter  I 

NIGHT  hung  over  Normandy.  The 
river  Seine,  dotted  with  reflected  stars 
and  moon-ghnts,  flowed  sleepily  between 
silent  shores ;  the  moon  looked  in  and  out 
of  isolated  cloud-banks  drifting  along  the 
firmament  high  above  this  Norman  country, 
whose  memories  were  bathed  in  centuries  of 
moonlight.  A  highway  followed  the  right 
bank  of  the  Seine,  but  the  only  sound  audi- 
ble upon  it,  above  that  of  lapping  waters 
and  whispering  leaves,  came  from  the  hoofs 
of  a  small  bay  mare  led  by  a  solitary,  noise- 
less horseman,  clad  in  black  garments,  whose 
colour  merged  the  wearer  into  the  trees'  shad- 
ows he  stepped  upon  as  they  stretched  out 
across  the  moonlit  road. 


12  The  Devirs  Plough 

The  night  being  warmed  and  sweetened 
by  the  moist  breath  of  early  spring  vegeta- 
tion, the  man  walked  along  bareheaded  for 
some  time,  once  stopping  incidentally  to 
bathe  his  face  and  water  the  horse  in  the 
river.  But  presently,  after  a  lengthy  halt, 
during  which  the  mare  cropped  grass  at  the 
edge  of  the  road  while  her  master  gazed 
abstractedly  across  the  water  at  the  towers 
of  a  parish  church,  the  man,  with  an  irreso- 
lute sigh,  donned  his  hat  and  urged  his 
horse  to  a  swifter  gait.  The  peculiar  shape 
of  the  hat  he  now  wore  marked  the  traveller 
a  Jesuit  priest  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

"  Marie  !  "  spoke  the  Jesuit  to  his  pretty 
mare,  who  turned  her  head  affectionately  at 
sound  of  her  name  uttered  in  his  character- 
istically smooth,  open  voice,  "  Marie,  hast 
thou  heard  that  the  soul  rides  easily  whose 
steed  is  the  grace  of  God  ?  "  The  mare 
looked  at  him  in  search  of  intelligible  com- 
mands, in  lieu  of  which  she  turned  away. 
The  priest  continually  muttered  disconnected 
phrases  and  quotations  until  he  reached  a 
point  where,  after  pursuing  a  direct  course 
for  some  distance,  the  road  and  river  together 


The  Devil's  Plough  13 

made  an  abrupt  bend,  turning  them  both 
slightly  toward  the  northeast. 

At  sight  of  this  bend,  where  the  river 
bank  became  steep,  and  so  elevated  the  road 
somewhat  above  the  level  of  the  water,  the 
priest  hurriedly  crossed  himself,  then  said 
aloud,  reminiscently,  "  This  is  where,  as  a 
lad,  I  met  and  wrestled  with  Satan,  Marie, 
—  barely  a  league  from  Great  Andelys, — 
bed  and  supper,  Marie  —  Ah !  Jesu 
Christus  !  " 

He  gave  a  cry  of  mental  agony  and 
pointed  to  the  shadow  of  a  wide-spreading 
tree.  "  Satan,  again  I  see  thee  hiding  there  ! 
Come  out !  Face  thy  foe  to  the  front  or  get 
back  to  hell !  Thou'st  come  to  bear  me 
company  ?  Truly,  I'm  no  craven  heart !  I'll 
have  it  out  with  thee."  The  man's  face  was 
distorted  with  fear;  the  beast  trembled. 

"  Come  on  !  "  cried  the  priest.  "  On 
guard  !  "  He  took  a  guard  position,  hold- 
ing an  imaginary  sword,  his  eyes  stretched 
in  terror.  But  suddenly  the  vision  passed, 
the  priest's  arms  dropped  to  his  sides ;  he 
wrapped  his  cassock  protectingly  closer  and 
moved  on  beside  the  mare. 


14  The  Devil's  Plough 

Putting  his  eyes  in  custody,  he  looked  no 
longer  at  surrounding  objects ;  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  suggested  some  mental  ar- 
gument proceeding  vigorously  behind  his 
broad  brow. 

"  No  !  no  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "  The 
points  are  ill  taken  !  Satan,  thou  art  not 
the  hand  at  argumentation  thou  art  reputed 
to  be."  He  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder. 
"  *  Happy  is  the  man,'  says  the  master  of 
ascetics,  *  who  can  reject  every  distracting 
thought  and  can  centre  himself  completely 
in  a  holy  compunction.' '  Happiness  is  the 
heaven  of  the  body  as  of  the  soul.  Thy 
road  leads  through  heaven  to  hell.  A  man 
can  but  choose,  then  wear  the  shoes  of  his 
own  making.  Satan,  I  love  thee  not,  but 
thy  company  entertains ;  one  hour  of  it  is 
worth  a  year  in  purgatory.  A  man  must  be 
lord  and  ruler  of  his  actions,  not  their  ser- 
vants and  slaves,  —  so  said  A  Kempis,  who 
knew  —  Whoa,  Marie  !  Is  Satan  in  thy 
saddle,  that  thou  standst  on  thy  hind  legs  ? 
Holy  Mother !  what  comes  '^.  " 

Drawing  the  mare  to  one  side  of  the  road, 
into  the  heavy  shadow,  the  priest  stood  at 


The  Devil's  Plough  15 

her  bridle,  watching  a  party  of  fleeing  horse- 
men gallop  noisily  past.  They  broke  dis- 
agreeably upon  the  silent  beauty  of  the 
night  with  their  oaths  and  brutal  shouts. 

"  Knaves  riding  to  the  gallows  unawares," 
muttered  the  priest.  Then,  when  their  dis- 
turbance faded  ofi^  into  the  night,  he  mounted 
his  mare  and  rode  rapidly  along  the  road 
toward  an  object  gradually  looming  in  the 
distance,  evidently  the  high  walls  of  a  castle 
or  country-house.  Marie  trotted  along 
steadily  in  pursuit  of  supper ;  but  suddenly 
her  sensitive  nostrils  dilated,  she  began  to 
sniff  the  air  inquiringly.  The  road  before 
her  being  obscured  momentarily  by  a  cloud 
shading  the  moon,  her  delicate  fore  feet 
struck  some  large  object  lying  across  it,  at 
which  she  stumbled. 

The  Jesuit  slipped  from  his  saddle,  caught 
her  head,  and  felt  with  his  hands  beneath 
her  feet  for  what  seemed  to  be  the  body  of 
a  man.  Yes ;  there  were  more  bodies,  — 
two,  —  probably  half  a  dozen,  —  and  two 
horses.  What  was  that  he  heard  ?  Another 
horse  neighing  to  Marie  from  the  grove 
beyond.      It  must  have  strayed  from  this 


1 6  The  Devil's  Plough 

company,  for  all  the  bodies  were  dressed  in 
riding-clothes.  Were  the  men  dead,  drunk, 
or  sleeping  in  the  highway  ?  The  moon 
shone  out.  He  felt  one  man's  heart.  Dead  ! 
Another  man's,  —  dead,  also,  Jesu  !  Alas  ! 
Dastard's  work  !  Ah  !  The  troop  of  horse- 
men he  had  met !  That  was  it !  They  were 
forest  robbers  fleeing  with  stolen  booty,  and 
these  were  soldiers  returning  from  the  late 
campaign  in  Bavaria.  Were  they  Norman 
cadets  ?  Yes,  yes.  Alas  !  And  of  his  broth- 
er's company  ?  He  turned  over  a  large  man 
lying  prone  on  his  face.  Could  it  be  ?  David, 
his  brother's  body  trooper !  Holy  Mother  ! 
Who  else  might  be  there  ?  Eagerly,  with 
trembling  hands,  the  Jesuit  searched  among 
the  dead  for  the  body  of  his  only  living 
relative.  Yes,  yes.  Tender  Mother,  have 
pity  !    It  was  he  !    But  there  was  yet  breath. 

"  Brother !  "  The  dying  man  at  this  call 
opened  his  eyes. 

"  Gaston,"  he  whispered  in  return,  his 
eyes  dilating.    "  Ah  !    The  end  !    We    came 

—  from   the  wars  —  booty  —  Bloody  Jean 

—  from  the  deep  wood  —  set  upon  us  — 
outnumbered.     I    see    Heloise !     Ah,   He- 


The  Devil's  Plough  17 

loise  !  "  He  fell  back  into  silence.  Marie 
whinnied  and  was  answered  by  the  dead 
men's  horses  straying  along  the  road. 

The  Jesuit  clung  to  the  body.  "  No ! 
No  !  "  he  cried.  "  Stay  !  Stay  for  abso- 
lution !  Go  and  sin  no  more."  He  began 
the  death  prayers,  but  they  were  said  and 
absolution  given  to  a  body  whose  spirit  had 
entered  into  eternity.  The  moon  went 
under  a  thick  cloud.  The  Jesuit  knelt 
there  alone  with  the  dead  and  his  own  heart, 
a  fiery  furnace  built  of  emotions  not  to  be 
quenched  even  by  the  holy  dews  of  heaven. 

For  a  long  time  he  knelt  there.  Marie 
neighed  for  her  supper  impatiently,  but  un- 
heeded, until  at  last,  brushing  away  some 
human  tears  from  eyes  long  disciplined  to 
show  no  recognition  of  personal  ties,  the 
tall,  strong  man  in  the  cassock  arose,  and, 
lifting  the  body  of  his  brother  in  his  arms, 
laid  it  across  Marie's  back.  He  gently  en- 
couraged the  mare  to  bear  the  gruesome 
burden,  which  he  supported  with  one  hand, 
the  other  guiding  the  horse  by  the  bridle. 
This  melancholy  procession  moved  slowly 
along  the  road  toward  the  Great  House  of 


1 8  The  Devil's  Plough 

Andelys,  the  birthplace  of  these  two  broth- 
ers. The  Jesuit  walked  wearily ;  his  head 
fell  forward,  weighed  down  with  sorrow  and 
other  contending  emotions  not  revealed. 
Once  he  muttered,  audibly,  "  Sin  !  Mortal 
sin  !     Sin,  bringing  death  to  the  soul." 

Upon  reaching  the  woodlands  skirting 
the  home  of  his  boyhood,  the  Jesuit  paused, 
shielded  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  looked 
off  at  the  house  inquiringly.  "Yes,  the 
light  burns  in  the  oriel  window.  It  can  be 
done.  Jean  and  the  others  are  asleep.  Ad 
majorem  Dei  gloriam.  It  may  be  even  so. 
Who  knows?  The  light  has  burned  day 
and  night  for  three  centuries  —  but  no  other 
candle  is  at  hand  without  waking  the  house. 
Secretly,  brother,  I'll  lay  thee  among  our 
ancestors.  But  I  am  a  priest,  —  thou  shalt 
have  all  holy  prayers  to  consecrate  thy  re- 
pose, and  thou  shalt  be  laid  in  holy  ground." 
He  lifted  the  burden  from  off  the  mare,  who 
quickly  began  to  nibble  grass  contentedly ; 
then,  raising  the  body  upon  his  own  strong 
shoulders,  the  priest  slowly,  carefully  made 
his  way  toward  the  house,  to  a  point  directly 
beneath  the   shining  spot  of  light,  plainly 


The  Devil's  Plough  19 

visible  in  a  great  window.  There  he  laid 
his  burden  down,  making  a  short  prayer 
over  it. 

He  approached  the  west  wall  of  his  child- 
hood home,  built  in  the  Burgundian  style, 
simple  and  elegant.  The  moonlight  clearly 
defined  the  square-headed  windows  divided 
by  mullions  ranging  on  either  side  of  the 
noble  oriel.  The  high-pitched  roof,  resting 
upon  a  figured  cornice  boldly  sculptured 
with  foliage,  could  be  seen  by  looking  up, 
— something  the  priest  did  frequently,  as  if 
fearing  observation  from  the  sleeping-rooms 
at  the  top  of  the  great  manor-house.  Con- 
science conceals  eyes  and  ears  with  which  to 
see  and  hear  at  its  own  convenience.  He 
walked  directly  to  a  small  door  screened  by 
thick  ivy.  This  he  tried  with  success,  for  it 
slid  to  one  side  easily  at  his  peculiar  twist  of 
a  metal  lion's  head  attached  to  the  centre. 

Again  he  took  up  his  burden,  and 
mounted  a  narrow  winding  stairway,  which 
brought  him  out  directly  beneath  a  shrine 
built  within  the  oriel  window,  and  where  a 
single  candle  of  unusual  size  burned.  The 
Jesuit   was    evidently    succumbing    to   the 


20  The  Devil's  Plough 

enormous  tax  laid  upon  his  physical  and 
mental  strength.  Again  he  laid  his  burden 
down,  removed  the  altar-cloth  spread  near 
by  the  candle,  and  laid  it  over  the  dead  face, 
then  sank  down  on  a  step  leading  up  to  the 
shrine.  There  he  sat,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  resting  and  meditating.  That  his 
mind  was  deeply  conflicted  and  harassed, 
the  wrinkles  of  fatigue  collecting  beneath  his 
luminous  eyes,  set  in  unusually  large  sockets, 
evinced. 

Presently  these  eyes,  ever  the  guard  or 
betrayer  of  his  emotions,  took  on  a  look  of 
resolution.  "  Brother,"  he  whispered,  lean- 
ing forward  close  to  the  body,  "  decide  for 
me.  Men  have  been  saved  by  miracles,  as 
was  the  holy  Ignatius.  Give  me  some  sign. 
If  what  I  am  about  to  do  is  sinful,  raise  thy 
right  hand."  He  waited.  There  was  no 
movement;  only  a  rat  gnawed  in  the  wall 
hard  by.  Long  he  waited.  Still  there  was 
no  sign.  "  Enough,  I  am  answered.  The 
Lord's  will  be  done."  With  which  he  took 
down  the  burning  candle,  crossing  himself 
in  the  act.  Half  dragging  the  limp  body, 
he  lighted  his  way  through    many  vaulted 


The  Devil's  Plough  21 

corridors  of  highly  polished  stone  and 
massy  timbers,  halting  to  rest  at  frequent 
intervals. 

The  man's  face  grew  whiter  and  longer 
under  the  weight  of  his  self-appointed  task. 
Finally  he  paused  at  a  door  leading  into 
what  seemed  to  be  a  dungeon  or  crypt. 
This  door  swung  slowly  open  at  touch  of 
his  elbow,  revealing  within  the  blackness  of 
a  vault  or  cave.  The  candlelight  gradually 
illuminated  this  crypt,  belonging  to  a  pri- 
vate chapel,  under  which  it  was  built  by 
primitive  Christians  of  Neustria  for  the  pur- 
pose of  secret  worship,  judging  by  the  style 
of  its  architecture,  and  by  the  stone  coffins 
so  placed  on  the  floor  that  the  heads  turned 
toward  the  east,  a  position  denoting  that  the 
dead  received  Christian  burial.  Around  this 
room  of  remote  antiquity  ran  a  plain  stone 
bench  divided  into  two  unequal  parts  by  a 
circular  arch,  and  behind  the  bench  were 
ranged  a  row  of  stone  coffins,  a  number  of 
which  were  sealed. 

Laying  the  body  in  the  largest  empty 
coffin,  the  Jesuit  tenderly  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  on  its  forehead,  then,  after  remov- 


22  The  Devil's  Plough 

ing  his  own  crucifix  and  placing  it  in  the 
stiff  hands,  he  covered  the  face  again  with 
the  altar-cloth,  and  repeated  the  full  Latin 
service  for  the  dead,  kneeling  himself  beside 
the  coffin.  The  candle  burned  in  his  hands 
clasped  together  in  prayer,  illuminating  thus 
weirdly  the  bowed  head  of  the  priest. 

Outside  the  rising  wind  moaned,  hurrying 
the  clouds  across  the  moon,  and  Marie 
neighed  impatiently  for  her  master.  The 
nightingale  sang  amorously  from  its  bough 
swayed  by  the  breeze ;  deep  melancholy 
breathed  through  the  night;  the  voice  of 
God  was  silent. 


Chapter    II 

AGAIN  the  early  springtime  came  to 
France.  The  trees  whispered  to- 
gether of  their  buds  soon  to  be  put  forth. 
The  Paris  of  Cardinal  Mazarin  was  wakeful; 
it  slept  on  pin  points. 

The  queen's  intimate  adviser  had  deliv- 
ered himself  of  the  opinion  that  three  par- 
ticular women  in  France  were  capable  of 
governing  or  of  upsetting  three  kingdoms ; 
and  it  would  seem  that,  whereas  Anne  of 
Austria  proved  herself  in  most  respects  a 
singularly  inefficient  woman,  the  ladies  of 
her  court  sought  and  found  an  indepen- 
dence of  character  and  speech  either  condu- 
cive or  fatal  to  the  welfare  of  any  community. 

That  the  duchesses  referred  to  by  Maza- 
rin through  their  indirect  means  precipitated 
the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  seems  probable ;  at 
any  rate,   it  is  known  that  the  fashion  for 

politics  and  literature,  since  prevailing  among 
23 


24  The  Devil's  Plough 

French  women,  was  given  its  first  strong 
impetus  at  the  time  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
was  a  lad  dictatorially  resenting  the  constant 
and  influential  interference  of  his  queen- 
mother's  ministerial  friend,  —  Mazarin,  the 
despised  of  the  people. 

In  this  spring  of  1646  there  were  four 
special  topics  of  social  converse,  —  politics, 
duelling,  literature,  and  love.  Cardinal 
Richelieu  had,  some  years  before,  spurred 
flagging  literary  effort  by  the  establishment 
of  the  Academy.  Of  Cardinal  Mazarin  a 
friendly  epitaph  might  read,  "  Here  Hes  the 
man  who  introduced  and  encouraged  good 
music  in  France  —  never  mind  the  rest." 
At  the  opening  of  the  year  1646  current 
literary  creations  were  not  conspicuous  for 
high  merit ;  only  the  growth  of  worthy  seed 
was  apparent  in  the  rapid  spread  of  the 
literary  idea.  It  was  the  fashion  to  read 
books,  although  Mazarin  was  in  no  wise 
responsible  for  this,  and  such  a  demand  could 
not  fail  of  an  adequate  supply  in  good  time. 

This  literary  idea  centred  about  the  per- 
sonality of  a  lady  whose  life  was  representa- 
tive of  the  best  France  then  contained,  even 


The  Devil's  Plough  25 

though  her  ideals  not  infrequently  misled 
her  and  others  into  a  pitfall  of  ludicrous 
affectations.  Madame  Rambouillet  accom- 
plished more  toward  cleansing  the  society  of 
France  than  did  any  one  woman  before  or 
after  her.  The  familiars  she  gathered  into 
her  salon  at  first  followed  superficially  wher- 
ever she  led ;  but  ultimately  there  came  a 
perceptible  native  decency  into  the  conver- 
sation and  morals  of  French  women  trace- 
able directly  to  this  one  woman  of  ideals. 

It  was  upon  a  Sunday  evening  midway  in 
April  that  the  frequenters  of  Hotel  Ram- 
bouillet gave  evidence  of  an  unusually  ex- 
cited interest  when  arriving  before  that  fine 
mansion  in  coaches  and  sedan-chairs.  Even 
the  porters,  fashionably  dubbed  "  baptised 
mules,"  and  employed  to  convey  beribboned 
chevaliers  and  perfumed  ladies  to  the  cele- 
brated house  of  Rambouillet,  exchanged 
vigorous  comments  upon  the  special  diver- 
sions arranged  for  that  evening  by  the  orig- 
inal and  greatly  admired  Madame,  whose 
gracious  manner  corrected  her  faults  of 
pedantry  more  successfully  than  did  many 
of  her  satellites  display  theirs. 


26  The  Devil's  Plough 

Two  porters  of  a  particularly  ornate  chair 
became  so  engrossed  in  their  own  remarks, 
at  the  imminent  risk  of  upsetting  the  pas- 
senger within,  that  the  gentleman  occupant 
called  out,  lustily,  "  Knaves,  art  thou  trying 
for  a  beating?  Is  the  Due  d'Enghien  to 
sleep  in  a  mudhole  to-night?  I'm  shaken 
like  a  pea  in  a  pod.     Have  a  care." 

This  injunction  smoothed  the  way  for 
the  noble  gentleman,  who,  a  few  minutes 
later,  arriving  safely  at  the  well-lighted 
portal  of  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  accosted 
another  gentleman  just  arrived  with  a  para- 
phrase of  Henry  the  Fourth's  injunction 
to  Crillon,  "  Go  hang  thyself,  Du  Brillon, 
for  they  have  fought  a  good  fight  without 
thee." 

"  Ah,  monsieur  le  due,"  answered  the 
Chevalier  du  Brillon,  recognising  the  most 
conspicuous  gentleman  in  France,  "  you 
have  the  goodness  to  even  address  me  con- 
cerning my  deplorable  absence !  Until  the 
very  moment  of  the  duel  it  was  my  fixed 
intention  to  be  present,  but  a  second  with  an 
unruly  stomach  is  less  acceptable  than  a 
doublet  without  hose,  —  both  are  inconve- 


The  Devil's  Plough  27 

nient,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  You  have  a 
stomach,  duke  ? " 

"  I  believe  that  I  have.  Yes,  I  may  say 
I  know  that  I  have,"  replied  the  young 
Louis  de  Bourbon,  showing  his  teeth  and 
curling  his  long  moustaches. 

"  Then,  monsieur  le  due,  you  know  that 
the  pit  of  it,  under  adverse  circumstances, 
would  make  a  coward  of  a  king.  De  Boute- 
ville  killed  his  man,  'tis  said.  His  thrust  is 
unequalled  throughout  France,  but  —  Ah! 
De  Chatillon,  I  have  the  honour  to  say  good 
evening.  May  I  inquire  how  the  duel  went  ? 
I  was  not  on  the  field,  for  the  reason  that 
my  stomach  went  a-duelling  on  its  own  ac- 
count, and  pinioned  me  to  my  bed  with  one 
thrust.     How  went  the  fray  ?  " 

The  gentleman  addressed  had  come  sud- 
denly into  the  lamplight  from  out  the  evil- 
looking  darkness  of  the  street.  His  long 
cape  was  of  black,  his  hat  of  the  same 
colour,  relieved  only  by  one  long,  sweeping 
white  plume.  His  smooth-shaven  face,  en- 
tirely out  of  line  with  the  prevailing  fashion 
of  hirsute  ornamentation,  and  his  peruke, 
somewhat  in  advance  of  the  mode  in  that 


28  The  Devil's  Plough 

regard,  well  became  a  countenance  irregular 
as  to  feature,  strong  and  dominating.  This 
Chevalier  de  Chatillon,  although  habitually 
employed  at  his  profession  of  war  in  localities 
where  the  airs  and  graces  of  the  court  did  not 
prevail  to  any  extent,  never  appeared  to  lose 
a  certain  distinguished  manner  of  his  own, 
even  if  he  had  been  known  of  late  to  slip  up 
on  one  or  two  fine  points  of  ephemeral  eti- 
quette, thus  diverting  the  easy  flow  of  aris- 
tocratic gossip  into  his  channel.  At  this 
moment  he  saluted  the  two  gentlemen  agree- 
ably, but  with  an  earnestness  foreign  even  to 
the  court  of  Anne  turned  ascetic  in  middle 
age ;  then  replied  to  Du  Brillon : 

"  Du  Brisy  fought  well,  monsieur ;  but 
De  Bouteville  had  superior  skill.  It  has 
been  my  privilege  to  know  Du  Brisy  many 
years.     I  had  hoped  for  an  apology." 

"  On  the  word  of  a  Jesuit !  That  would 
have  been  unlikely.  The  sport,  monsieur, 
the  sport  1  A  man  could  not  forego  the 
sport  for  the  mere  hope  of  life.  De  Boute- 
ville's  thrust  is  unequalled  in  Paris.  I  was 
just  saying  this  to  monsieur  le  due." 

"  *Tis  undeniable,  for  he  hath  killed  his 


The  Devil's  Plough  29 

twenty  men  in  half  the  years.  Ah,  the  night 
is  hot  for  middle  April.  It  can't  be  much 
worse  in  purgatory  this  time  of  year,"  re- 
plied D'Enghien,  throwing  back  his  cloak 
and  fanning  with  his  hat  as  the  three  entered 
the  house. 

"In  my  opinion,"  De  Chatillon  remarked, 
casually,  "  De  Bouteville  hath  but  one  rival 
as  a  duellist.  His  thrust  doth  not  equal 
that  of  Saint-Evremond  in  nicety  and  pre- 
cision." 

"He  would  not  welcome  the  words  from 
you,  monsieur,"  replied  Du  Brillon. 

"  'Tis  like  not,"  said  De  Chatillon,  care- 
lessly. "  No  man  delights  to  see  himself  in 
his  neighbour's  mirror." 

"  Ah,  the  soldier  turns  an  epigram  worthy 
of  Ninon  !  "  D'Enghien  laughed.  "  Dun- 
kirk would  have  appeared  to  have  sharpened 
your  wit.  Monsieur  de  Chatillon,  as  did  the 
very  sound  of  it  my  sword.  Or  did  the 
weight  of  a  beard  drag  it  down  before  ?  A 
smooth  face  becomes  you  well.  'Tis  a  pity 
the  fashion  were  not  set  that  way." 

By  now  lackeys  had  relieved  the  gentle- 
men of  cloaks  and  hats.   The  duke  indicated 


30  The  Devil's  Plough 

his  pleasure  in  the  further  society  of  the  two 
chevaliers ;  accordingly,  the  three  entered 
together  the  glittering  company  assembled 
about  Madame  Rambouillet.  The  elabo- 
rately gay-coloured  costumes  of  the  duke  and 
Du  Brillon  cast  De  Chatillon's  sober  array 
considerably  back  into  the  shadow.  He 
stepped  behind  the  two  as  they  approached 
Madame  Rambouillet ;  but  even  so  his  un- 
usual face,  excellently  well  set  against  the 
white  curls  of  his  peruke,  a  headdress  some- 
what in  advance  of  the  prevailing  style,  and 
a  deep  violet  doublet  slashed  with  white, 
attracted  attention. 

De  Chatillon  had  not  the  repose  of  a  court- 
ier. His  hands,  almost  concealed  by  white 
lace  ruffles,  nervously  felt  of  his  baldric.  Only 
his  face  was  immovably  contained ;  even  so, 
his  eyes  wandered  restlessly  about  the  room. 

Madame  Rambouillet,  standing  there  sur- 
rounded by  a  dozen  or  so  guests  engrossed 
in  a  discussion  of  Descartes's  philosophy, 
smiled  at  their  approach  in  the  dignified, 
womanly  way  whose  fine  graciousness  ex- 
tended hospitality  invitingly. 

"  Ah,   monsieur   le    due   and   chevaliers. 


The  Devil's  Plough  31 

you  do  me  the  honour  to  come  even  at  a 
late  hour.  I  have  the  extreme  pleasure  to 
assure  you  that  your  absence  would  have 
destroyed  the  fine  edge  of  the  evening." 
She  bowed  deeply,  holding  the  small  fan 
she  had  named  "  zephyr  "  spread  out  across 
her  bosom. 

"  Madame,  I  do  myself  not  only  great 
honour  but  also  great  felicitation  in  coming 
into  your  beautiful  presence." 

"  Madame,  I  am  enchanted,"  "  Madame, 
I  am  delighted,"  came  from  each  gentleman 
respectively,  as  he  bent  low  before  her. 

"  Have  you  heard,  gentlemen,  that  we  are 
to  have  an  unusual  diversion  this  evening? 
La  Fontaine  had  promised  to  recite  one  of 
his  most  inspiring  fables,  so  illustrative  by 
analogy  of  all  human  weakness,  inevitable 
even  where  the  mind  aspires.  Have  you 
read  his  fable  of  the  fox  and  the  grapes, 
monsieur  le  due?     It  is  marvellous." 

"  Madame  must  graciously  pardon  my 
ignorance  of  this  most  admirable  author," 
replied  D'Enghien,  twisting  his  long  mous- 
taches. "  A  soldier  of  the  state  hath  only 
time  to  wipe  his   sword  and  make  history. 


32  The  Devil's  Plough 

He  cannot  read  much  that  would  perhaps 
be  improving.  But  I  shall  do  myself  the 
honour  to  be  pleased  with  whatever  books 
madame  has  the  goodness  to  recommend, 
and  to  listen  attentively  to  the  author  this 
evening." 

"  Monsieur  le  due  is  more  than  kind." 
Madame  bowed  deeply.  "  But  alas,  gentle- 
men. Fate  hath  not  been  equally  gracious 
this  evening.  La  Fontaine  resides  at  some 
distance  from  Paris,  and  at  the  last  moment 
was  detained.  In  his  place  I  have  the  hon- 
our to  present  to  you  some  Italian  violinists 
brought  from  Naples  by  the  cardinal ;  and 
later  Corneille,  whose  tragedies  uplift  one's 
spirit  to  the  very  summit  of  the  soul,  will 
read  for  our  criticism  his  lately  finished 
play.  We  hold  our  breath  with  antici- 
pation." 

Those  who  had  been  discussing  Descartes 
with  madame  now  moved  closer  in  eager 
Interest  at  sound  of  the  lady  talking  of 
Corneille  with  the  duke,  whose  recent  con- 
quest at  Dunkirk  now  made  him  the  most 
conspicuous  gentleman  in  Paris,  to  which  he 
had  but  just  returned.   These  guests  greeted 


The  Devil's  Plough  ^3 

the  gentleman  with  ceremonious  effusion, 
but  meanwhile  De  Chatillon  had  slipped 
quietly  away.  Here  and  there  he  saluted 
an  acquaintance  among  the  assembly,  but 
passed  along  without  pausing,  evidently  in 
search  of  some  one.  At  sight  of  De  Cha- 
tillon a  particularly  lively  group  of  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  centred  about  an 
elderly  man  talking  or  reciting  incessantly, 
turned  their  tongues  upon  the  chevalier. 

"  Monsieur  Voiture,  make  us  a  sonnet 
touching  upon  De  Chatillon's  bare  face," 
they  insisted.  "  A  most  romantic  subject ! 
'Tis  said  he  cut  off  his  beard  after  the  battle 
of  Nordlingen  last  year,  swearing  never  to 
grow  another  until  Heloise  de  Luneville  is 
his.  A  sonnet !  A  sonnet,  Voiture !  We 
cannot  live  without  a  sonnet." 

"  Hein  !  Hein  !  My  muse  is  not  stuffed 
with  hair,  young  ladies,"  insisted  Voiture, 
rolling  up  his  eyes  for  inspiration. 

"  But  it  can  be  cut  to  fit  any  fashion. 
I'll  be  thy  barber,"  replied  Mademoiselle 
de  Bourbon. 

"  Good,  mademoiselle,  good  !  Permit  me 
to  preserve  your  wit  in  my  tablets  for  ref- 


34  The  Devil's  Plough 

erence.  There  are  moments  when  my  own 
cutteth  capers,  and  I  then  greatly  need 
assistance."  Voiture  scribbled  on  ivory 
tablets  mockingly,  pursing  up  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  and  arching  his  eyebrows  in 
amiable  irony  at  his  own  delivery  of  this 
impromptu : 

**  Oh,  noble  sir,  whose  barber  was  employed 

To  prove  thy  love  a  thing  both  staunch  and  bold  ! 
Thou' St  won  the  adoration  unalloyed 

Of  every  maid  to  whom  this  tale  thou'st  told." 

"  Abominable  !  "  broke  in  Mademoiselle 
de  Bourbon,  amidst  the  following  laughter. 
"  I  know  not  Monsieur  de  Chatillon.  He 
hath  told  me  no  tale.  Thy  Pegasus  hath 
a  limp,  Voiture."  Tapping  Voiture  with 
her  zephyr,  she  pouted  smilingly. 

"  Here  comes  Saint-Evremond.  Try  his 
wings,"  suggested  Voiture,  feeUng  for  his 
snuff-box. 

But  interest  in  De  Chatillon  quickly 
waned. 

Saint-Evremond  approached,  carrying  a 
book  in  his  sword  hand.  "  Observe,"  whis- 
pered a  gentleman  to  a  lady,  "  Saint-Evre- 


The  Devil's  Plough  35 

mond  carries  his  wits  in  his  hands  to-night." 
The  lady  put  a  sweet  lemon  to  her  lips, 
then  asked,  "  Monsieur  Saint-Evremond, 
may  I  have  the  honour  to  know  whose 
wits  you  carry  about  with  you  ? " 

"  Some  I  have  borrowed  for  the  purpose 
of  appearing  well  in  your  eyes,  mademoi- 
selle."    Saint-Evremond  bowed  low. 

"  Does  Ninon  lend  hers  ?  "  asked  Voiture, 
pointedly. 

"  Only  to  those  capable  of  understanding 
their  force.  Ninon  would  tell  you  that  bor- 
rowed plumage  is  better  than  nakedness." 

"  Good,  good  !  my  tablets.  Mademoiselle, 
that  will  take  the  place  of  honour  beside 
your  last  bon  mot."  Voiture  stuck  in  his 
quill  a  borrowed  feather,  as  was  the  literary 
custom  of  the  day. 

"  Where  is  Ninon  ?  "  asked  Mademoiselle 
de  Bourbon.  "  I  see  Monsieur  Pascal  over 
there  beside  Madame  de  Sevigne.  His  re- 
flections make  me  long  for  a  life  such  as 
only  an  angel  could  live  gracefully.  La 
Bruyere  is  here  somewhere,"  —  she  turned 
and  looked  about  the  room,  —  "yes,  over 
there.     He  doth  alarm  me!     And  Balsac? 


^6  The  Devil's  Plough 

I  see  him  not.  Stand  in  front  of  me  if 
Corneille  appears.  His  melancholy  chills 
the  wine." 

"  'Twould  be  happier  for  him  were  his 
purse  as  deep  as  his  gloom,"  replied  Saint- 
Evremond. 

"  But  concerning  Mademoiselle  de  L'En- 
clos,"  interrupted  a  young  gentleman,  ea- 
gerly ;  "  I  have  not  observed  her  among  us 
for  a  melancholy  length  of  time.  Monsieur 
Saint-Evremond." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  reason  ? "  Saint- 
Evremond  pulled  out  one  of  his  long  curls 
lazily. 

"Yes."  "Certainly."  "You  must," 
they  exclaimed. 

He  leaned  slightly  forward.  "  Ninon 
says  that  if  she  were  to  reach  paradise  and 
there  encounter  a  company  of  precieuses 
from  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  she  would 
turn  about,  in  hopes  of  finding  entertain- 
ment in  purgatory." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle  de  L'Enclos  no 
longer  loves  us  ?  "  asked  a  lady  of  exceeding 
grace,  who  joined  the  group  during  the 
quotation. 


The  Devil's  Plough  37 

"  Ninon  confesses  herself  a  lady  of  bad 
taste,  madame  la  comtesse,"  Saint -Evre- 
mond  replied,  bowing  low. 

The  lady  smiled.  "  Doubtless  Ninon 
finds  the  society  of  Monsieur  Descartes 
and  Monsieur  Saint-Evremond  more  divert- 
ing. The  brains  of  clever  gentlemen  are 
near  neighbours  to  their  hearts." 

With  this  sally  Comtesse  de  Luneville 
passed  along,  laughing  back  at  them  over 
one  shoulder.  Her  white  silken  costume, 
embroidered  with  gold  stars  and  leaves  done 
in  Persian  stitch,  was  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  pale  blue  sash  tied  in  a  large  knot  im- 
mediately below  the  bosom.  Flowers  and 
pearls  mingled  in  her  hair,  and  her  long 
gloves  were  supported  by  pearl  bracelets. 
Few  women  are  given  the  charm  displayed 
by  Heloise  de  Luneville  moving  there 
among  the  guests  of  the  Hotel  Rambouillet. 
Even  the  extreme  height  of  her  heels  failed 
to  interfere  with  the  grace  of  her  movements. 
Grace  in  thought,  manner,  and  action  was  the 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  Comtesse 
de  Luneville.  She  rustled  her  trailing  skirts 
along  the  polished  floor  in  sinuous  curves. 


38  The  Devil's  Plough 

bending  her  steps  toward  Madame  Ram- 
bouillet.  Pausing  beside  an  inlaid  table 
of  great  value,  recently  sent  to  madame 
in  remembrance  from  Italian  friends,  the 
countess  stooped  over  a  vase  filled  with 
flowers,  forgetful  of  those  about  her.  She 
was  recalled  by  words  spoken  at  her  side. 
"  Madame  la  comtesse  is  asking  the  flowers 
for  advice  ? " 

At  once  she  stood  erect,  then  bowing 
deeply,  replied,  "  I  have  the  honour  to  say 
good  evening.  Monsieur  de  Chatillon.  What 
human  heart  needs  not  holy  counsel  ? " 

"  Only  that  of  a  lady  already  spotless. 
May  I  have  the  honour  to  show  you  even 
finer  flowers  arranged  at  the  feet  of  Venus, 
near  the  Florentine  mirror  ?  At  no  great 
distance,  countess." 

Again  she  bowed  in  courteous  assent, 
whispering  quickly,  as  her  head  bent  toward 
his  shoulder,  "  Monsieur,  is  this  wise  ? " 

"Wisdom  belongs  only  to  the  serpent, 
countess.  Come.  Our  hostess  would  be 
displeased  were  you  to  miss  the  sight  of 
her  very  beautiful  flowers,  knowing  your 
tastes." 


The  Devil's  Plough  39 

De  Chatillon,  making  this  talk  for  public 
ears,  revealed  in  his  eyes  an  overpowering 
determination,  passionate  with  that  reckless- 
ness of  a  man  who,  seeing  Death  approach, 
hastens  to  meet  him.  The  two  walked  for- 
mally side  by  side  the  length  of  several 
rooms  opening  into  each  other,  meanwhile 
exchanging  the  artificial  compliments  of  the 
day  and  discussing  Corneille's  imminent 
debut  before  the  Rambouillet  circle. 

As  they  approached  a  unique  bank  of 
flowers  and  growing  orange- trees,  arranged 
from  a  special  design  introduced  by  the 
queen's  Italian  gardener,  De  Chatillon  par- 
tially dropped  his  conventional  armour. 
"  Countess,"  he  began,  earnestly,  "  we  have 
but  a  moment.  The  music  is  soon  to  begin. 
We  are  nearing  the  end  of  the  book.  Are 
we  then  to  close  it  for  ever,  and  throw  it 
among  the  rubbish  of  our  lives,  or  are  we  to 
place  it  beside  our  precious  volumes,  to  be 
studied  and  caressed  every  day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  why  not  linger  over  the 
end  indefinitely  ?  Why  should  we  hasten 
to  proceed  beyond  the  interesting  point  we 
have  reached  ?  "     The  countess  appeared  to 


40  The  Devil's  Plough 

be  greatly  admiring  the  flowers,  but  her 
hands  trembled  in  touching  the  golden  fruit 
of  the  trees. 

"  Because  a  man  seldom  leaves  a  book 
unfinished.  He  reads  fewer  than  do  women, 
perhaps,  but  he  reads  thoroughly  and  com- 
pletely whatever  he  undertakes."  De  Cha- 
tillon  still  moved  his  hands  nervously  up 
and  down  his  baldric,  or  played  with  the 
lace  on  his  doublet.  Once  he  raised  an 
uncontrollable  hand  to  his  deep  lace  collar, 
flattening  it  out  carefully,  as  if  its  orderly 
condition  were  the  one  thing  of  greatest 
importance  to  him  at  the  moment. 

"  But  the  woman,  monsieur  ?  You  admit 
that  she  is  different.  Have  you  no  consid- 
eration for  that  difi^erence  ?  "  Heloise  raised 
her  eyes  directly  to  his. 

The  man  hesitated  before  speaking.  "  If  I 
were  certain  that  the  woman  had  no  real  de- 
sire to  know  the  end,  I  would  take  the  story 
we  have  been  reading  together,  bury  its  con- 
tents deep  among  my  most  sacred  thoughts, 
and  wait  for  death  to  tell  me  more.  But  I 
remain  unconvinced.  Heloise!  Heloise! 
Love  trembles  before  thee!     Thou  art — " 


The  Devil's  Plough  41 

"  Monsieur,  have  a  care,"  the  lady  warned. 
"I  hear  voices.  There  are  sounds  of  in- 
struments, too,  —  madame's  diversion  is 
beginning.  Poetry  is  to  words  what  flowers 
are  to  all  vegetation,  —  their  soul.  Come, 
monsieur,  we  must  return." 

"  But  the  book,  madame  la  comtesse,  the 
book  !  The  best  parts  remain  unfinished." 
De  Chatillon  compelled  her  eyes  one  mo- 
ment, then  she  looked  beyond  him  as  if 
seeking  advice  from  some  remote  eminence. 
He  waited  silently.  The  sound  of  distant 
music  grew  distinct.  Heloise  dropped  her 
eyes  to  the  flowers  and  sighed  deeply. 

"  Do  we  live  only  for  what  will  come 
after  death,  monsieur?  If  so,  I  now  bid  you 
farewell  eternally ;  but  if  earthly  joy  counts 
something  to  the  human  soul,  I  bid  you  — " 
She  paused. 

"  Heloise  !  "  murmured  De  Chatillon  ; 
"joy  with  thee  here  weighs  more  than  pur- 
gatory." 

"  I  bid  thee,'*  she  continued,  moving 
across  the  room,  "give  me  a  few  days  in 
which  to  read  the  interesting  parts  alone  be- 
fore we  finish  the  book  together." 


42  The  Devil's  Plough 

"As  madame  la  comtesse  wishes."  De 
Chatillon  bowed  slightly.  "  Relish  is  not 
destroyed  by  waiting.  We  are  not  the  only 
ones  detained  away  from  the  diversions  of 
the  evening  by  madame's  charming  flowers 
and  pictures.  Ah,  Monsieur  de  Bouteville, 
I  have  the  honour  to  bid  you  good  evening, 
and  congratulate  you  upon  your  skill.  The 
duel  went,  as  ever,  your  way  this  morning." 

Moving  toward  the  great  salon  devoted 
to  special  diversions,  they  encountered 
others  assembling  from  all  parts  of  the 
house.  Among  these  guests  was  Monsieur 
de  Bouteville,  the  celebrated  duellist,  who, 
at  sight  of  the  Comtesse  de  Luneville, 
turned  his  steps  with  apparent  interest  in 
her  direction. 

"  Gountess,  I  hasten  to  do  myself  the 
honour  to  salute  you,  having  just  arrived," 
De  Bouteville  replied  to  their  salutations. 
"Your  felicitations  I  have  the  extreme 
pleasure  to  accept.  Chevalier  de  Chatillon. 
My  thrust  is  more  like  to  bring  good  for- 
tune than  is  a  woman's  love." 

Comtesse  de  Luneville  glanced  at  him, 
and  smiled  a  bit  disdainfully.     "  'Tis  possi- 


The  Devil's  Plough  43 

ble  monsieur  hath  more  understanding  of  a 
thrust  or  parry  than  of  a  woman's  heart. 
But  permit  me.  Monsieur  de  Bouteville, — 
may  I  ask  of  you  the  extreme  favour  to 
conduct  me  to  the  diversions  now  begin- 
ning? Monsieur  de  Chatillon  had  the 
kindness  to  show  me  madame's  latest  design 
in  floral  decoration,  but  he  unfortunately  is 
feeling  greatly  indisposed.  'Tis  necessary 
for  him  to  return  home  and  send  for  De 
Lorine.     Is  it  not  so,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Alas,  yes  !  My  head  danceth  the  sara- 
band, as  the  countess  hath  perceived  by 
my  stupidity  in  invention.  And  with  her 
gracious  permission  I  will  depart  at  once. 
I  have  the  honour  to  bid  you  farewell, 
madame  la  comtesse.  Pray  enjoy  the  book 
I  loaned  you,  and  make  no  haste  to  return 
it.  Again  I  have  the  honour,  countess.  I 
bid  you  good  night.  Monsieur  de  Boute- 
ville." 


Chapter  III 

TWO  Jesuit  priests  were  hurrying  toward 
their  college,  situated  in  the  shadow 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris.  Trepidation  was 
plainly  to  be  seen  in  their  excited  gestures 
and  heard  in  their  quite  audible  conversa- 
tion. One  brother  stumbled  over  an  old 
shoe  lying  near  a  doorstep  amid  other  an- 
noying rubbish  which  cluttered  the  streets 
at  that  unsanitary  period  of  French  history. 

^^  Soit  de  peste  !  "  he  exclaimed,  recover- 
ing hie  balance.  "  The  streets  of  Paris  are 
beyond  even  the  powers  of  Hercules.  The 
Augean  stables  were  most  likely  clean  in 
comparison.  Hurry,  brother,  hurry  !  Father 
L'Artanges  must  require  assistance  in  ill- 
ness,—  nothing  else  would  cause  him  to 
keep  waiting  so  notable  an  audience." 

"  Bah  !  "  replied  rotund  Brother  Francis, 
covering  with  his  right  hand  a  stitch  in  his 

44 


The  Devil's  Plough  45 

left  side  made  by  this  unseemly  haste  of  a 
Sunday  morning.  "  Father  Gaston  cares 
little  or  nothing  for  worldly  eminence.  He 
is  the  solitary  preacher  in  Paris  whose  tongue 
is  not  greased  with  gold." 

"  Greased  with  gold !  That  might  be 
taken  in  two  ways.  His  eloquence  is  with- 
out doubt  golden.  Hurry,  Brother  Francis. 
Picture  that  congregation  of  people  waiting 
before  an  empty  pulpit !  Father  Coligny 
must  be  three-quarters  through  mass  by  this 
time." 

"  'Tis  good  discipline,  for  the  courtiers 
come  to  Notre  Dame  to-day  in  greater 
numbers  than  is  customary.  For  what 
reason,  dost  thou  suppose  ?  Once,  think- 
ing some  foreign  substance  had  flown  in  my 
eye,  I  opened  it  (just  one,  brother)  during 
the  creed,  and  saw  the  unholy  Ninon  and 
her  good  fellows  —  also  the  Due  d'Enghien 
—  also  Madame  de  Sevigne  —  also  —  " 

"  Ssh,  brother  !  Some  one  in  passing 
may  overhear  your  indiscretion.  Ad  ma- 
jorem  Dei  gloriam.  But  art  thou  certain 
that  foreign  substance  in  thy  eye  was  not 
some  foreign    potentate   accompanying   the 


46  The  Devil's  Plough 

.  noble  duke  ?  Eh,  brother  ?  "  They  both 
repressed  timely  but  unseemly  laughter. 

"  Keep  thy  eyes  in  custody,  Brother 
Thomas.  I  see  Madelon,  the  pretty 
daughter  of  Pierre,  hurrying  late  to  mass." 

"  Another  foreign  substance  in  thine  eye, 
eh,  brother  ?  But  what  can  Father  Gaston 
be  about?  If  he  should  be  dead,  —  or 
visited  by  Satan  !  Holy  Mother !  "  They 
both  crossed  themselves,  hurrying  at  the 
moment  through  the  portal  of  their  college, 
St.  Ignatius,  and  then  rapidly  on  toward  the 
private  room  of  their  rector. 

By  the  way  they  inquired  for  Father 
Gaston,  as  the  preacher  L'Artanges  was 
familiarly  called,  but  no  one  seemed  to  be 
informed  concerning  his  whereabouts.  The 
college  porter  volunteered  to  speed  them 
toward  the  rector's  apartment,  but  without 
encouragement  as  to  the  result  of  their 
search.  Brother  Francis's  stitch  in  his  side 
brought  him  to  a  sudden  halt.  Leaning 
against  the  refectory  wall,  he  gasped  and 
sputtered,  mumbling  to  himself  as  he  lis- 
tened attentively  with  one  ear  turned  for- 
ward toward  some  strange  sound.  "  Fiddling 


The  Devil's  Plough  47 

of  a  Sunday  morning  !  Holy  Mother  ! 
Some  soul  must  do  penance  for  this  devil's 
dance.  Rejoice  and  be  glad,  fat  Francis, 
that  thou  art  not  the  sinner."  Directly  he 
trotted  along  after  the  others,  and  soon  was 
standing  inside  the  rector's  private  apart- 
ment, his  eyes  popping  out  of  their  fat  eye- 
lids at  the  ungodly  sight  revealed  therein. 

The  honourable  rector  of  the  Jesuit  Col- 
lege of  Paris,  L'Artanges,  that  most  re- 
nowned Jesuit  preacher  of  Notre  Dame, 
celebrated  throughout  France  for  his  elo- 
quence and  piety,  was  to  be  seen  there,  in 
the  centre  of  his  antechamber,  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  while  a  vast  throng  awaited  his 
sermon  in  Notre  Dame,  fiddling  a  dance 
tune,  and  making  his  legs  move  in  a  most 
unbecoming  manner  to  the  measure  of  his 
music,  —  in  other  words,  dancing  right 
merrily. 

"  Jesu  !  Preserve  the  faith  !  St.  Igna- 
tius, we  need  thy  holy  presence ! "  faltered 
Brother  Francis. 

At  sight  of  his  subordinates  and  their 
amazement,  the  tall  man  of  magnetic  pres- 
ence and  deep,  burning  eyes  laid  down  his 


48  The  Devil's  Plough 

fiddle,  and  with  some  impatience  demanded, 
"  Why  this  intrusion,  brothers  ?  Are  my 
services  required  ? " 

"  But,  father,"  replied  the  incredulous 
Thomas,  "  the  people  assembled  in  Notre 
Dame  ?  They  await  you.  Mass  has  now 
progressed  to  the  point  of  the  sermon.  Are 
you  not  coming?  We  are  despatched  to 
bring  you  —  " 

"  'Tis  so,  'tis  so.  I  am  remiss,  maybe,  — 
but  no  harm  is  done.  Waiting  for  heavenly 
food  makes  room  in  the  spiritual  stomach 
for  it.  Pardon  me,  brothers,  but  the  fact 
is,  I  was  so  depressed  in  spirits  by  my  text 
this  morning  that  I  have  been  striving  to 
rouse  my  heart  by  this  little  foolery.  Come, 
make  speed.  There  is  no  time  to  lose. 
'Tis  my  belief  I've  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
thought."  And  away  L'Artanges  hurried, 
forgetful  of  the  others,  all  intent  upon  this 
scandal  of  the  day. 

"  If  Father  Gaston  were  not  so  holy  a 
man,  he  would  surely  follow  the  devil's 
plough,"  commented  Brother  Thomas  in  a 
whisper.  But  Brother  Francis  put  a  fat 
forefinger  to  his  lips,  replying,  "  Ad  major  em 


The  Devil's  Plough  49 

Dei  glorianiy"  and  they  too  made  haste  back 
to  Notre  Dame. 

Upon  this  sunlit  Sabbath  morn  the  noble 
cathedral  was  crowded  with  a  varied  congre- 
gation. Pulpit  oratory  was  in  its  infancy, 
but  during  this  time  of  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth's boyhood  the  people  were  deeply 
touched  on  their  religious  side  by  the 
preaching  of  several  priests  gifted  with 
powers  of  religious  utterance,  cultivated  to 
a  high  dramatic  pitch  in  the  admirable  edu- 
cational atmosphere  of  the  Jesuit  colleges. 
And  the  flippant  aristocracy  confessed  them- 
selves highly  diverted  by  this  new  form  of 
entertainment,  rendering  their  own  devotions 
more  palatable.  The  nerves  of  this  vast 
congregation,  largely  composed  of  the  lower 
classes,  stretched  in  nervous  expectation, 
greatly  increased  by  the  delay.  This 
preacher's  hold  upon  the  people  lay  in 
the  dramatic,  emotional  sway  to  which  his 
preaching  justly  laid  claim.  Where  other 
preachers  of  the  day  skilfully  cut  their  ser- 
mons after  a  set  pattern  of  divisions  and 
subdivisions,  the  rector  of  St.  Ignatius  was 
one  of  the  first  to  break  away  from  such 


5©  The  Devil's  Plough 

conventions.  Also  it  had  been  rumoured 
about  Paris  that  L'Artanges,  with  his  ac- 
customed freedom  of  speech,  was  that  morn- 
ing to  attack  from  the  pulpit  the  morals  of 
the  court.  This  alone  was  sufficient  to  draw 
hither  many  of  those  ordinarily  attendant 
upon  service  at  the  Queen's  Chapel.  Curi- 
osity sat  in  high  places  that  morning  at 
Notre  Dame. 

Accordingly,  the  hundreds  assembled  ex- 
pectantly in  the  cathedral  sat  in  profound 
silence,  a  breathing  mass  of  humanity,  when 
the  great  preacher  issued  forth,  and  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  pulpit.  He  gave  one  look 
up  at  the  window  over  the  organ,  where  the 
sun  threw  out  in  bold  relief  the  highly  col- 
oured figures  of  the  Virgin  and  Child  sur- 
rounded by  prophets,  painted  on  the  glass, 
then  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  crucifix  in  his 
hands.  The  organist  had  continued  the 
musical  service  during  the  unaccountable 
time  of  waiting,  and  now  the  voices  of  the 
choristers  fell  into  a  lingering  diminuendo 
at  the  close  of  a  chant.  Softly  the  dimin- 
ishing tones  floated  over  the  congregation  ; 
myriads   of  cathedral    lights    mellowed    the 


The  Devil's  Plough  51 

distance  while  L'Artanges  knelt  in  prayer. 
The  rose  window  in  the  north  transept  lay 
in  shadow,  but  the  southern  rose  glowed  in 
the  sun,  sending  down  upon  the  people  a 
wonderful  vision  of  apostles  and  bishops, 
to  whom  angels  were  bringing  golden  crowns. 
Incense  mounted  from  the  altar;  altogether, 
the  spectacle  was  of  sufficiently  impressive 
devotional  grandeur  to  lift  any  man's  emo- 
tions, no  matter  how  callous,  to  imaginary 
realms  of  light. 

L'Artanges  arose  from  his  knees,  but 
heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  standing  there 
for  a  single  moment  with  closed  eyes,  while 
the  music  faded  away  into  a  silence  of  exal- 
tation. The  man's  face  showed  tense  and 
nervous  against  the  white  vestments  of  his 
office.  When  his  eyes  opened  slowly,  they 
glowed  like  smouldering  live  coals,  but  he 
began  with  no  eagerness ;  his  words  rang 
like  the  slow  tolling  of  a  death-bell. 

"  I  am  stricken  as   hay,  and  my  heart  is 

dried   up  ;    behold    our    languor    and    old 

>> 
age. 

L'Artanges's  manner,  throughout  the  de- 
livery of  this  text,  indicated  the  imperative 


52  The  Devil's  Plough 

presence  of  God  in  their  midst  urging  him 
to  the  accomplishment  of  a  solemn  duty- 
long  left  undone.  Afterward  he  paused 
dramatically,  as  if  listening  for  the  divine 
voice,  then  broke  into  an  eloquent  shower 
of  words,  falling,  as  he  proceeded,  like  hot 
hail  upon  the  upturned  faces  before  him. 

He  outlined  the  social  conditions  prevail- 
ing then  in  Paris,  briefly  but  picturesquely, 
dwelling  upon  the  unfortunate  state  of  the 
poor,  and  the  indifference  of  the  aristocracy 
and  bourgeoisie  to  the  people's  increasing 
restlessness  under  their  burdens  of  taxation 
and  poverty. 

"Those  who  sit  in  high  places,  attend. 
A  fire  is  smouldering  here  in  your  midst, 
and  ye  do  not  even  pray  for  rain  to  quench 
it.  Take  heed.  At  no  distant  future  ye 
will  hear  the  great  flames  crackling  about 
your  heads.  Then  it  will  be  too  late.  These 
restless  poor,  possessed  of  human  hearts 
and  divine  souls,  cannot  pray  to  the  Holy 
Mother  through  long  centuries,  for  help 
and  mercy  in  their  distress,  without  avail. 
The  merciful  will  of  God  must  break  your 
hearts  if  they  do  not  soften  righteously  of 


The  Devil's  Plough  53 

their  own  accord.  Halt  on  the  way  to  pur- 
gatory. Turn  back  where  the  gates  of 
heaven  are  open  to  all  repentant  sinners. 
The  poor,  the  poor  of  Paris  starve  and 
groan,  while  those  born  in  softer  beds  riot 
in  profligacy.  Christ  died  for  the  poor.  He 
holds  ye  accountable  for  them.  He  slum- 
bers not  while  his  children  sorrow.  Every 
man  and  woman  must  pay  back  in  heart's 
blood  the  wasted  years  of  life.  Virtue  is 
stricken  like  the  hay  when  rains  descend 
unceasingly.  Now  is  the  bad  weather  of 
the  soul  of  Paris.  Pure  in  spirit !  Pure 
in  spirit !  Who  is  pure  in  spirit  in  this  day 
when  the  very  throne  totters  with  the  weight 
of  spiritual  impurity ;  when  the  people  can 
look  nowhere  for  virtue  but  to  heaven  ? " 

The  audience  caught  its  breath  when  he 
paused.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  sought  each 
other's  eyes  in  dread  of  this  audacity.  L'Ar- 
tanges  would  without  doubt  lose  his  prefer- 
ment ;  certainly  he  no  longer  stood  any 
chance  of  becoming  the  queen's  confessor. 
Mazarin  was  already  at  odds  with  L'Artan- 
ges.  This  attack  would  undoubtedly  prove 
fatal  to  the  priest's  interests  both  in  Paris 


54  The  Devil's  Plough 

and  in  Rome.  Meantime,  it  was  exciting; 
they  must  give  close  heed  to  whatever  else 
this  impudent  Jesuit  had  to  say.  What  talk 
it  would  make  at  the  Hotel  Rambouillet 
that  night !  But,  attention  !  Some  words 
had  been  missed. 

The  preacher's  hands  reached  out  toward 
heaven  as  if  for  help.  He  was  saying,  "  Ah, 
my  brethren,  shall  I  shrink  from  hurting 
you  with  the  holy  truth  ?  Shall  I  at  this 
moment,  when  the  cross  is  being  erected,  at 
the  cost  of  blood  and  courage,  at  the  very 
ends  of  the  earth,  among  the  heathen, — 
shall  I  proclaim  myself  inferior  in  divine 
purpose  to  those  holy  missionary  martyrs, 
by  shrinking  from  preaching  the  truth,  no 
matter  how  high  the  place  it  strikes  ?  Vir- 
tue, virtue,  is  the  command  of  Christ, 
crowning  all  good  men,  be  they  great  or 
small.  All  men  are  sinners,  and  shall  I 
dare,  I,  to  make  one  exception  ?  I  cannot 
set  one  man  or  woman  apart.  I  would  not 
wish  that  a  worldly  diadem  should  deprive 
any  soul  of  the  crown  of  glory,  —  should 
prevent  any  soul  this  day  from  receiving 
upon  the  royal  brow,  like  the  humblest  of 


The  Devil's  Plough  55 

subjects,  some  drops  of  the  blood  that  puri- 
fies and  saves." 

The  aristocrats  grew  restless:  they  were 
apprehensive ;  some  few  seemed  visibly 
touched  by  the  earnest  words.  The  people 
listened  eagerly  to  their  priestly  idol. 

"Woe!"  he  continued.  "Woe  to  him 
who  should  keep  out  of  the  multitude  for 
which  Jesus  died !  Woe  to  those  in  high 
places  who  should  imagine  that  there  are 
two  roads  to  heaven,  one  for  themselves  and 
one  for  the  people.  Or  rather,  yes,  yes, 
there  are  two.  But  the  narrowest,  the  most 
rugged,  the  one  in  which  aid  and  pity  is  most 
needed,  is  that  in  which  walk  those  men  who 
are  surrounded  with  so  many  dangers,  so 
many  temptations.  It  is  yours,  O  kings, 
O  ye  gods  of  the  earth  ! " 

At  this  moment  a  sob  was  heard  breaking 
in  upon  the  fiery  words ;  another,  and  then 
a  woman,  unaccompanied,  dressed  plainly 
and  masked,  arose  from  amid  the  humbler 
members  of  the  assembly.  She  hurried  out 
of  the  cathedral  alone,  and  the  many  eyes 
directed  curiously  at  her  retreating  form 
little  guessed  with  what  spiritual  trembling 


56       .  The  Devil's  Plough 

Anne  of  Austria  had  suffered  under  the 
weight  of  these  words.  During  the  rustle 
of  curious  heads  turning  to  examine  the 
woman  so  affected,  Monsieur  Bussy  de  Ra- 
butin,  kneeling  beside  Mademoiselle  Ninon 
de  L'Enclos,  leaned  over  and  whispered, 
"  Don't  look.  It's  only  the  devil  hurrying 
back  home."  The  most  conspicuous  lady 
in  Paris  made  a  slight  grimace,  then  smiled 
behind  her  zephyr,  touching  her  patches  in 
quick  succession  to  make  sure  of  their 
safety. 

"  Heed  ye  all,"  the  voice  from  the  pulpit 
warned.  "  We  contemplate  in  our  earthly 
fray  two  camps  in  battle  array,  —  two  gen- 
erals commanding  our  service :  one  is  Jesus 
Christ,  his  city  Jerusalem ;  the  other,  Satan, 
his  city  Babylon  the  Great.  Shall  we  fight 
with  Satan  or  with  Christ  ?  " 

Ninon  whispered  back  to  De  Rabutin : 
"  L'Artanges  evidently  failed  to  observe  the 
enemy  leave  the  field.  There  go  two  more 
of  similar  character.  Observe  De  Bouteville  ! 
Look  !  He  and  De  Pont-Gibaut  are  rising  ! 
Surely,  Bussy,  De  Bouteville  forceth  him 
away   from    his    devotions    to    fight.      He 


The  Devil's  Plough  57 

beckons !  Jesu  !  The  edict  is  as  flimsy 
as  my  virtue.  Farewell,  Bussy,  may  luck 
pat  you  on  the  back.  Charlevalle  will 
attend  me  to  my  coach."  Monsieur  de 
Rabutin  arose,  joined  the  others,  and  the 
three  gentlemen  started  forth  in  pursuit 
of  Satan,  making  considerable  disturbance 
during  their  exit.  But  great  numbers  of 
the  plain  people  were  visibly  moved  by  the 
words  from  the  pulpit,  some  stirring  im- 
petuously as  if  eager  to  answer  the  war-cry 
of  the  soul. 

L'Artanges  stood  waiting  a  moment  after 
the  interruption,  barely  perceptible  to  him, 
then  his  voice  assumed  its  serenest  modula- 
tions. He  lingered  upon  the  tenderness  of 
holy  love,  appealing  thus  to  the  abiding 
human  craving  for  help  and  protection. 
He  expounded  the  similarity  existing  be- 
tween the  spirit  of  the  times  and  that  pre- 
vailing when  Christ  was  born ;  dwelling 
upon  the  new  seed  of  truth  planted  in  the 
sodden  fields  of  the  human  heart  when  the 
Holy  Mother  gave  birth  in  the  manger. 
With  all  the  subtlety  of  the  Jesuit  mind  he 
pled  his  way  into  this  same  human  heart. 


58  The  Devil's  Plough 

leaving  his  listeners  like  wax  in  the  hands  of 
his  words. 

When,  after  mass,  Ninon  stepped  into  her 
coach,  surrounded  by  a  dozen  gallants  in 
waiting,  she  was  heard  to  say,  "  L'Artanges, 
with  a  few  more  strokes,  would  have  pierced 
the  armour  of  my  philosophy.  Until  we 
meet  again,  gentlemen.  Shall  it  be  the 
Hotel  Rambouillet  to-night,  or  Hotel 
Ninon  ?  I  appoint  the  noble  duke  arbiter 
elegantiarum.  I  wish  you  a  very  good 
morning." 

The  people  of  lower  degree  swarmed  out 
from  mass,  enthusiastically  discussing  the 
sermon  while  walking  home  in  family 
groups.  L'Artanges  had  evidently  strength- 
ened his  hold  upon  them  that  day. 

Meantime,  the  preacher  descended  from 
his  pulpit,  a  weary,  pale,  nervously  ex- 
hausted man.  After  removing  his  vestments, 
with  the  assistance  of  Brother  Francis,  he 
started  out  at  the  portal  under  the  north 
tower,  called  Porte  de  la  Sainte  Vierge, 
which  led  almost  into  the  Rue  du  Cloitre 
Notre  Dame.  Several  priests,  instructors 
in  the  college,  accompanied  him.     As  they 


The  Devil's  Plough  59 

descended  the  steps,  a  lady,  whose  chair  was 
in  waiting  close  by  in  charge  of  her  porters, 
approached  the  group  of  priests. 

"  Father  L'Artanges,"  she  said,  address- 
ing him  persuasively,  "  may  I  beseech  you 
to  give  me  a  word  here  and  now  ?  " 

He  stepped  toward  her,  motioning  the 
other  priests  to  proceed.  "  Countess,"  he 
replied,  in  a  tone  audible  to  the  retreating 
brothers,  "  this  is  not  usual.  Why  did  you 
not  send  for  me,  if  my  presence  was  de- 
sired ? " 

"  Your  sermon  brought  me  to  this  point, 
father.  I  feel  myself  to  be  in  great  danger 
of  sin.  My  soul  cries  for  comfort,  father. 
I  must  confess." 

"  But,  countess,  I  am  not  your  confessor. 
Call  upon  him  who  answers  to  your  daily 
needs.     It  is  his  office  to  console." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  intensely,  working 
her  fingers  in  and  out  among  each  other  in 
nervous  entreaty  ;  the  sunlight  danced  on  her 
bronzed  hair.  "Your  words  have  moved 
me  strangely  this  morning.  Your  holy 
counsel  I  crave.  In  the  name  of  the  Virgin, 
give  a  tempted  woman  assistance,  father." 


6o  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Peace,  my  daughter,"  he  warned. 
"  The  people  from  mass  are  still  passing. 
Come  into  the  vestibule." 

They  withdrew  together  into  the  shadow 
of  t;he  great  door,  and  stood  directly  beneath 
the  bas-relief  of  the  Temptation  and  the 
Ejection  from  Paradise.  Before  turning  his 
face  again  in  the  direction  of  the  lady,  the 
priest  looked  up  at  this  design  upon  the 
door  as  if  by  way  of  voluntary  inspiration 
or  self-warning.  L'Artanges  was  visibly 
moved  to  nervous  agitation.  His  deep  eyes 
contained  an  inexplicable  expression  of  fear. 

"  Countess,  as  your  well-wisher  I  advise 
you  to  continue  in  your  present  confessional 
relations." 

"  Father  Gaston,"  —  she  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  adoring  reverence,  — "  I  need  thee.  Is 
it  in  thy  conscience  to  turn  aside  a  soul 
imperilled  ?  Before  this  very  night  I  must 
hear  the  voice  of  Heaven,  or  —  who  knows  ? 
—  a  soul  may  be  lost." 

In  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral  her  deli- 
cately outlined  face  lost  its  human  colour, 
and  the  great  eyes,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances mischievously  radiant,  now  assumed 


The  Devil's  Plough  6i 

a  painful  introspection.  The  woman  was 
plainly  in  extreme  fear  for  her  soul.  L'Ar- 
tanges  looked  down  into  the  piteous  eyes. 
Quickly  he  moved  one  hand  about  his  chest 
as  if  labouring  for  breath  and  self-control. 
He  stood  thus  for  several  moments  without 
speaking.  Finally,  as  if  pushed  from  behind, 
he  stepped  near  her,  crying,  "  Heloise  !  " 

"  Father  Gaston  !  "  exclaimed  the  count- 
ess, "  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  I  do  not  understand  myself,  countess." 
There  was  a  pause  between  them,  during 
which  the  priest  appeared  to  be  mentally 
praying,  and  the  woman  looked  at  him 
closely,  as  if  perceiving  for  the  first  time 
something  unusual  in  his  appearance. 

"  How  strange  !  "  she  muttered,  faintly  ; 
then,  resuming  her  imploring  look,  she 
asked,  "  Father,  may  I  confess  to  you  be- 
fore night? " 

"  I  cannot  allow  it,  my  daughter."  He 
supported  himself  with  one  hand  laid  against 
a  pillar. 

"  Is  the  courtesy  of  the  brotherhood  more 
to  you  than  a  human  soul.  Father  Gaston  ?  " 

He  made  no  reply. 


62  The  Devil's  Plough 

"Father  Gaston,"  —  she  moved  closer  to 
him,  —  "you  will  be  answerable  at  the  last 
judgment  for  a  soul  in  purgatory."  Then, 
falling  on  her  knees,  she  caught  the  skirt  of 
his  habit  entreatingly.  "  Father  Gaston,  I 
need  consolation,  —  my  heart  is  breaking. 
Help  me  !  help  me  !  " 

"Arise,  daughter,"  replied  the  Jesuit, 
slowly.     "  I  will." 


Chapter  IV 

THE  followers  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  im- 
mediately before  the  period  of  their 
self-destruction  in  France,  had  attained  an 
admirable  eminence  in  all  knowledge  bear- 
ing upon  worldly  culture  and  book-learning. 
Had  not  their  weak  human  nature  over- 
balanced the  benefits  of  their  policy  wher- 
ever temptations  to  self-indulgence  arose  in 
greater  numbers  and  force  than  the  necessity 
for  self-discipline,  the  Jesuits  would  prob- 
ably have  retained  indefinitely  their  su- 
premacy over  the  human  mind.  When 
Louis  the  Thirteenth's  widow  was  Regent 
of  France  they  were  giving  out  more  than 
they  took  in  spiritually ;  in  consequence, 
the  base  of  supplies  tottered. 

The  general  at  Rome  still  remained  domi- 
nant in  personal  control  over  every  member 
of  the  Order,  whether  he  lived  in  Paris,  a 

63 


64  The  Devil's  Plough 

fashionable  confessor  dwelling  in  covert  lux- 
ury, or  in  New  France,  enduring  the  hard- 
ships and  glory  of  martyrdom  among  the 
North  American  Indians.  But  day  by  day 
this  sovereign  of  the  Order  lost  his  hold 
upon  the  army  of  Jesus.  Military  general- 
ship once  lost,  left  him  bare  of  spiritual 
control,  long  a  dead  letter  in  his  policy. 
A  general  leading  soldiers  into  battle  against 
Satan  imperils  his  cause  by  the  loss  of  a 
single  private's  devoted  obedience. 

In  Paris,  during  the  wars  of  the  Fronde, 
the  majority  of  Jesuits  lost  sufficiently  their 
respect  for  the  cardinal  principles  of  their 
Order,  —  embracing  obedience,  chastity,  and 
poverty,  —  to  admit  of  an  easy  and  un- 
apprehensive life  of  pleasure  carried  on  im- 
mediately below  the  surface  of  their  more 
or  less  conventual  living. 

The  general's  absolute  power  and  all- 
seeing  eye  were  still  feared ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  they  were  occasionally  evaded, 
something    hitherto   held  to  be  impossible. 

The  Jesuit  college,  nestling  under  the 
wing  of  Notre  Dame,  and  overlooking 
the  river  to   the  south,  was  supervised,  in 


The  Devil's  Plough  6s 

the  superior  capacity  of  rector,  by  L'Ar- 
tanges,  whose  sermons  had  brought  him 
fame  throughout  France.  This  L'Artanges, 
familiarly  called  Father  Gaston,  was  born  a 
leader  of  men.  The  lads  collected  directly 
under  his  influence  in  the  Jesuit  college 
answered  to  the  touch  of  his  mind  with 
a  worship  reverential  and  devotional.  Ru- 
mour surmised  considerable  subterranean 
laxity  among  the  faculty  of  St.  Ignatius, 
but  Father  L'Artanges  had,  during  his 
five  years  of  control,  remained,  as  far  as 
was  known,  positively  faithful  to  his  vows. 
This  fact  alone  strengthened  his  influence 
over  his  subordinates,  were  they  brothers 
of  the  Order,  novices,  or  young  men  of 
distinguished  ancestry  sent  there  for  col- 
legiate instruction.  Probably  the  secret  of 
the  devil's  power  could  be  traced  to  his 
consistent  pursuit  of  the  principles  he  advo- 
cates. No  man  can  for  long  successfully 
teach  one  thing  and  believe  another. 

Some  weeks  after  L'Artanges's  covert 
attack  upon  the  life  of  the  court  had  made 
him  more  than  ever  the  general  sensation 
of  the  day,  equalling,  if  not  surpassing,  in 


66  The  Devil's  Plough 

that  respect,  news  concerning  the  latest  duel, 
or  the  probability  of  Beaufort's  escape  from 
prison,  L'Artanges  sat,  late  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  hazy,  yellow  spring  day,  in  his  quiet 
room  reading.  All  necessary  evidences  of 
asceticism  surrounded  him,  and  still  there 
were  not  wholly  lacking  intimations  of 
aesthetic  intentions  and  longings.  On  a 
projecting  ornament  of  his  private  book- 
cabinet  hung  a  crucifix,  but  beside  it,  on 
top  of  the  cabinet,  stood  a  flower-pot,  whose 
single  blooming  plant  scented  the  air  agree- 
ably. 

L'Artanges  sat  reading  in  a  comfortable 
chair  placed  in  such  line  with  the  window 
that,  upon  looking  up,  his  glance  met  a  long 
stretch  of  the  river,  then  wooded  in  the 
distance  with  trees  showing  delicate  infant 
leaves  of  a  tender  green.  His  ponderous 
volume  failed  to  hold  the  rector's  observa- 
tion long  away  from  the  charm  of  that  land- 
scape visible  over  the  low  college  wall. 
Several  times  his  eyes  strained  toward  the 
outer  world  with  evident  desire,  and  finally 
his  book  dropped  on  to  his  knees,  his  head 
fell  back  upon  a  comfortable  head-rest,  and 


The  Devil's  Plough  67 

he  dreamed  thoughtfully,  in  contemplation 
of  the  view  before  him. 

This  repose  was  interrupted  by  the  col- 
lege porter,  a  lay  brother,  whose  personal 
devotion  to  Father  Gaston  had  grown  into 
a  proverb  among  the  students.  "  Faith- 
ful as  Pierre  to  Father  Gaston,"  were  words 
frequently  heard  among  the  lads  at  their 
books.  Pierre,  after  scratching  on  the  door, 
entered,  carrying  a  bulky  letter. 

"  Holy  father,"  he  said,  "  I  bring  you  a 
letter  newly  arrived  from  New  France.  It 
was  despatched  by  messenger  from  a  mis- 
sionary brother  lately  arrived  in  a  ship 
direct  from  that  barbarous  country  of  sav- 
ages where  they  eat  of  each  other  three 
times  daily.  The  missionary  brother  ap- 
pears to  be  still  in  Paris,  on  his  way  to 
Rome,  and,  if  my  ears  are  not  asses',  they 
understood  that  his  intention  is  to  visit 
you  in  the  interest  of  the  savage  mission 
before  continuing  his  journey." 

Father  Gaston  took  the  letter  with  some 
show  of  eagerness.  Pierre  remained  stand- 
ing near  by  curiously,  while  the  thick  packet 
was  opened.     Father   Gaston  glanced    hur- 


68  The  Devil's  Plough 

riedly  through  the  lengthy  contents,  obliv- 
ious of  the  man  standing  there,  until  the 
latter  spoke,  tentatively: 

"  Father  Gaston,  if  it  does  not  —  " 

"What,  Pierre!  Thou  art  still  here?" 
said  the  priest,  reprovingly.  "In  the  name 
of  obedience,  is  there  no  work  to  be  done, 
that  thou  canst  idle  about  ? " 

"  But,  holy  father,  I  have  a  request.  You 
are  good  —  'tis  but  a  little  thing  —  "  He 
hesitated. 

"  What  is  it,  Pierre.? "  Father  Gaston  gave 
him  the  keen  look  of  mingled  command 
and  consideration  whose  winning  power  sel- 
dom fails  of  its  purpose  where  subordinates 
are  concerned. 

"Holy  father,  'tis  only  to  hear  the  letter 
read.  Father  Francis  says  I  was  born  with 
asses'  ears  because  I  say  the  savages  eat  each 
other,  having  heard  that  report.  The  letter 
cannot  fail  to  speak  the  truth  about  that 
land  of  ice  and  black  men.  But  if  you  are 
unwilling,  father  —  " 

"You  want  to  know  about  the  Indians? 
Well,  so  do  I.  We'll  read  it  together, 
Pierre."    L'Artanges's  voice  changed  swiftly; 


The  Devil's  Plough  69 

his  words  became  sharp  and  higher  pitched. 
"  Pierre,  wouldst  thou  go  and  live  in  that 
country,  —  for  the  greater  glory  of  God  ?  " 

"  I  live  there  !  "  gasped  the  porter,  wide- 
mouthed  and  eyed.  "  I  to  be  eaten  bit  by 
bit  by  wild  beasts  of  men !  Holy  Father 
defend !  " 

"  But  wouldst  thou  go  with  me  to  that 
land  ? "  the  father  added  musingly,  looking 
off  toward  the  extreme  western  bend  of  the 
river.  "  A  new  life,  Pierre,  with  something 
real  to  fight,  —  something  outside  oneself 
to  be  taken  hold  of —  " 

"  But,  holy  father,  when  are  you  going  ? 
What  will  Paris  do  without  you  ?  The  poor 
—  remember  them  —  the  poor  of  Paris  have 
only  you  for  a  friend.  Down  at  the  market, 
this  very  morning,  I  heard  the  women  whis- 
pering among  themselves,  *  Our  hope  is  in 
Beaufort  and  Father  Gaston.  We  will  drive 
the  pig-headed  priest  away  from  the  queen 
and  little  Louis.     We'll  use  our  hands  —  " 

"  Did  they  speak  those  words  aloud, 
Pierre  ?  "     The  priest  was  attentive. 

"Just  between  their  teeth,  holy  father. 
The  women  tied  a  pig  in  his  pen,  then  they 


yo  The  Devil's  Plough 

threw  carrots  at  him.  They  called,  *  Take 
that,  Mazarin,'  every  time  they  hit  him ; 
and  some  used  frondes,  and  pelted  the  poor 
pig  with  stones,  like  the  boys  in  the  streets 
outside  the  wall." 

"  This  is  bad.  Trouble  rumbles  like 
distant  thunder."  Father  Gaston  frowned 
abstractedly. 

"  But,  Father  Gaston,  —  about  New 
France.  You  are  not  going,  father,  —  say 
you  are  not.  But,  if  you  do,  I  must  say 
good-bye  to  sweet  France,  to  the  river  and 
to  the  fish,  to  the  fine  market,  and  my  little 
daughter,  Madelon.     Ah,  it  is  sad  !  " 

"  No,  no,  Pierre.  We  will  not  go  now. 
Our  work  is  here.  Madelon  and  the  fish 
need  you,  —  the  people  need  me ;  but  what- 
ever calls  us,  it  is  for  the  greater  glory  of 
God,  Pierre." 

The  layman  crossed  himself  mechanically 
and  looked  with  affection  at  Father  Gaston. 

"  I  will  read  the  letter  from  New  France. 
Shade  the  window,  Pierre ;  the  glare  of  light 
makes  the  written  characters  indistinct." 
The  man  screened  him  with  his  body,  and 
L'Artanges  read  aloud : 


The  Devil's  Plough  71 

**  My  Reverend  Father  :  —  Pax  Christi.  This  is  a 
mission  of  blood  and  fire,  of  toils  and  tears,  of  captives 
and  barbarians.  It  is  a  country  where  the  ground  is 
still  stained  with  the  blood  of  Frenchmen  ;  where  scaf- 
folds are  still  standing,  strewn  with  their  ashes;  where 
survivors  of  the  cruel  torture  bear  its  direful  marks  on 
feet  and  hands,  with  nails  torn  out,  and  fingers  and  toes 
cut  off;  where,  in  fine,  I  have  spent  a  year,  that  I  might 
hear  the  lamentations  of  this  afflicted  church,  and,  like  a 
good  shepherd,  share  all  the  afflictions  of  his  beloved 
flock. 

"  Of  all  the  devices  employed  by  the  devU  for  thwart- 
ing the  Father's  good  purposes,  there  is  scarcely  one  of 
greater  efficacy  than  dreams,  which  form  almost  the  sole 
divinity  of  the  country;  while  the  people  glory  in  com- 
mitting a  thousand  extravagances  for  the  sake  of  obeying 
this  god  of  darkness  and  falsehood.  My  greatest  care  dur- 
ing my  late  sojourn  among  the  barbarous  Iroquois,  now 
leaning  somewhat  toward  the  faith,  was  to  let  no  infant 
miss  baptism,  all  captive  Frenchmen  dexterously  com- 
ing to  my  aid  in  this  noble  occupation.  The  smallpox, 
opportunely  supervening,  gathered  in  a  rich  harvest  of 
those  innocent  souls  ;  for,  of  more  than  two  hundred 
who  received  holy  baptism  during  the  winter,  there 
were  over  six  score  who  died  soon  after,  to  make  their 
flight  to  heaven. 

"  My  next  care  was  to  prepare  the  adult  sick  to  pass  to 
a  happier  life.  It  is  true,  my  success  in  their  case  did  not 
always  meet  my  wishes,  for  it  is  very  difficult  to  die  like 
a  saint  after  having  always  lived  like  a  barbarian.      Often 


72  The  Devil's  Plough 

was  I  driven  out  of  the  cabins,  and  my  charity  repaid 
with  the  old  reproach,  that  the  faith  is  only  fitted  to  kill 
people  ;  often,  too,  was  I  listened  to  in  peace,  and  grace, 
which  knows  how  to  choose  its  predestined  ones,  found 
lodgment  in  the  hearts  of  some,  while  it  was  expelled 
from  those  of  others.  But  these  ministrations  are  ac- 
cepted only  in  times  of  peace.  Scarcely  any  blessing 
is  conferred  in  the  church  except  by  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 

*'  If  this  sign  is  the  symbol  of  blessing  and  of  salvation, 
we  are  rich  in  New  France,  for  we  have  crosses  on  every 
hand.  The  hardest  and  heaviest  come  to  us  from  these 
Iroquois,  who  are  constantly  killing  and  slaughtering  us, 
incessantly  destroying  our  allies,  and  everywhere  closing 
the  door  to  the  gospel. 

**  We  have  learned  with  joy  that  it  is  the  queen's  will  to 
remove  these  obstacles,  and  give  our  missionaries  liberty 
to  carry  Jesus  Christ  into  all  these  vast  regions.  May 
God  bless  her  and  all  the  royal  house  for  ever.  The 
surest  means  to  strengthen  her  own  kingdom  effectually 
for  the  benefit  of  her  son  is  to  establish  that  of  Jesus 
Christ.  May  it  please  our  Lord,  as  he  has  crowned  the 
great  princes  of  the  world  with  so  much  glory,  to  cause 
them  to  bear  the  name  of  conqueror  in  America  as  well 
as  in  Europe,  honouring  them  with  the  conquest  of  souls, 
together  with  that  of  cities  and  provinces.  Their  earthly 
victories  bring  them  credit  on  earth  ;  their  victories  in 
heaven's  cause  will  redound  to  their  honour  in  heaven. 
Thither  must  their  thoughts  in  Christian  piety  turn,  and 
thither  are  directed  our  prayers.     To  these  prayers  we 


The  Devil's  Plough  73 

implore  you,  my  reverend  father,  to  add  the  succour  of 
your  own  and  of  those  of  all  our  fathers  and  brethren. 

"Your  reverence's  very  humble  and  obedient  servant 
in  our  Lord, 

"Simon  Le  Moyne." 

L'Artanges  laid  down  this  letter  with  a 
sigh.  "  The  men  giving  their  lives  in  New 
France  are  in  holy  virtue  the  peers  of  the 
apostles.  Theirs  is  the  faith  that  removes 
mountains." 

He  had  forgotten  Pierre,  who  answered 
to  this  comment,  "  My  ears  were  not  so 
long  as  Father  Francis  said.  Thank  you, 
holy  father,  for  reading  the  letter.  I  can 
now  tell  Father  Francis,  upon  Father  Le 
Moyne's  word,  that  the  savages  are  unholy, 
unbaptised  beasts." 

The  rector  smiled  leniently  and  was  about 
to  speak,  when  he  caught  a  sound  at  the 
door. 

"  Some  one  desires  entrance,  Pierre." 

At  the  door  Pierre  found  Brother  Francis, 
his  eyes  more  popped  than  usual,  and  his 
nose  sniffling  impatiently. 

"  Is  the  holy  father  within  ?  "  he  inquired, 
hurriedly. 


74  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Yes,  Brother  Francis,  and  my  ears  are 
not  asses',  after  all  —  " 

"  What  is  it?  "  demanded  the  rector's  firm 
voice.     "  Admit  Father  Francis." 

"  Holy  father,  a  messenger  from  the 
queen."  Father  Francis  handed  the  rector 
a  sealed  envelope. 

"  You  may  go,"  the  latter  said,  after 
skimming  the  contents.  "  I  appoint  Father 
Andrew  to  hear  the  novitiate  confessional, 
and  to  pronounce  penance  in  my  necessary 
absence.     I  am  called  away." 

The  two  subordinates  left  the  room,  back- 
ing out  of  the  presence  of  their  superior. 

Once  alone,  L'Artanges  walked  to  the 
window,  still  holding  in  his  hand  the  order 
from  the  queen.  His  face  was  non-com- 
mittal, but  his  eyes  burned  with  steady  de- 
termination, looking  down  upon  the  novices 
hoeing  potatoes  in  the  garden  in  compulsory 
silence. 

"  I  am  at  least  faithful  where  my  con- 
science is  not  blinded.  I  will  not  retract. 
Why  have  they  waited  these  weeks  ?  The 
cardinal  could  not  make  up  his  mind.  He 
fears   my    control    of    the    people."      He 


The  Devil's  Plough  75 

thought  this  out  leaning  against  the  win- 
dow-frame, watching  the  shadows  lengthen 
in  the  garden ;  then  taking  down  his  long 
hat,  he  started  for  the  Palais  Royal. 


Chapter  V 

DURING  the  reading  of  the  Jesuit  mis- 
sionary's letter  in  the  college  of  St. 
Ignatius,  the  antechamber  to  Anne  of 
Austria's  private  apartment  buzzed  with 
gossip.  The  ladies  in  waiting  to  the  queen 
were  assembled  there  while  her  Majesty 
attended  self-appointed  devotions  in  her 
oratory,  where,  at  this  period  of  her  life, 
the  once  lively  queen  spent  many  hours 
daily  prostrate  before  an  image  of  the  Mag- 
dalene. The  yeast  in  her  conscience  gave 
evidence  of  rising.  In  a  close-fitting  serge 
costume,  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  like  that 
of  a  lay  nun,  she  fasted  and  chastised  her- 
self with  monotonous  frequency.  This  fact 
alone  would  have  created  nothing  more  than 
conversation  among  her  ladies,  but  when  she 
insisted  upon  their  doing  likewise,  a  lively 
breeze  of  well-warmed  temper  swept  through 

their  retiring-room. 

76 


The  Devil's  Plough  77 

They  sat  about  this  apartment  of  great 
size,  devoted  to  their  plea-^-ure,  in  chattering 
groups,  although  three  or  four  lazily  isolated 
themselves,  lying  on  couches,  book  in  hand, 
and  others  played  cards  enthusiastically. 
Their  long  ringlets,  fashionably  called  mous- 
taches, fell  gracefully  over  their  ears  or  well 
across  their  faces,  when,  as  was  the  case  in 
several  instances,  they  indolently  or  dili- 
gently embroidered,  according  to  their  re- 
spective tendencies. 

Close  by  a  window  overlooking  the  Place 
Royale  sat  a  particularly  lively  group  of 
ladies.  Stretched  indolently  at  length  on  a 
couch  lay  Mademoiselle  de  Pous,  tearing  in 
pieces  a  bunch  of  flowers  and  throwing 
handfuls  of  rose  petals  at  her  companions. 

"  Mademoiselle,  for  what  reason  do  you 
wear  your  capeline  indoors  ? "  she  called 
out  to  a  radiant  young  person  but  recently 
arrived. 

"  Ah,  my  capeline !  I  truly  forgot  you 
weren't  all  game.  Some  hunters  in  breeches 
and  new  pourpoints  still  think  you  are," 
replied  Mademoiselle  de  la  Mothe,  remov- 
ing a  becoming  hat  of  the  latest  fashion  for 


78  The  Devil's  Plough 

the  hunt.  "  How  do  you  like  these  black 
feathers  with  the  pink  lining,  Lucie  ?  Her 
Majesty  told  me  but  yesterday  that  I  look 
like  a  peacock  in  my  capeline.  That's 
better  than  looking  like  an  owl." 

Mademoiselle  de  Pous  put  up  her  fan 
before  her  mouth,  so  that  only  her  eyes 
showed  laughter.  The  others  looked  sig- 
nificant. 

"  Marie,"  said  De  Pous,  "  much  of  inter- 
est has  occurred  in  your  absence.  De 
Hautefort  was  turned  out  of  the  room  this 
morning,  during  the  queen's  toilet,  for 
bursting  into  tears  because  her  stays  were 
too  tight,  while  putting  on  the  shoes.  De 
Noailles  came  in  about  an  hour  ago,  had  an 
audience  of  a  few  minutes,  then  hurried  out 
red  as  my  pattens,  and  ordered  her  coach 
before  we  —  " 

"  What  was  the  matter  ?  "  interrupted  De 
la  Mothe,  excitedly.     "  Monsieur  —  " 

They  all  laughed.  "  No,  no.  For  a 
young  one,  your  guess  was  quick.  No, 
even  better;  guess  again." 

"  Oh,  you  child  of  gadflies !  What  is 
it?     Countess,  the  news.^*  "     She  turned  to 


The  Devil's  Plough  79 

Comtesse  de  Joinville,  sitting  somewhat 
apart  beside  the  open  window.  The  count- 
ess smiled,  and  her  even  teeth  glistened  as 
she  bit  into  a  sweet  lemon  to  redden  her 
lips.  She  made  one  sweeping  gesture,  em- 
bracing her  bust,  and  they  all  raised  their 
zephyrs  to  conceal  a  general  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  De  Pous,  stretching  out 
her  satin-shod  foot  and  looking  at  it  care- 
fully, "  modesty  hath  come  in.  Take  care. 
De  Noailles  was  told  that  she  wore  her 
bodice  too  low.  She  swears  she  didn't. 
Think  of  that !  Give  me  a  bon-bon  to 
stop  my  mouth." 

"  Oh,  I've  had  my  weekly  lesson,"  re- 
plied De  la  Mothe.  "  But  yesterday  I  was 
told  I  must  confess  to  a  Jesuit.  Horrible ! 
I,  a  Jansenist,  confess  to  a  Jesuit !  I  always 
confess  twice  a  year,  anyway.  What  is  it  to 
her  Majesty  if  I  do  not  confess  at  all  ?  " 

"  Ssh  ! "  cautioned  De  Pous,  glancing 
over  her  shoulder  at  a  tapestry  hanging. 
"  Come  here,  little  one,  —  console  yourself 
with  a  sweetcake  off  our  new  gold  trays. 
The  court  grows  liberal.  I  must  loosen  my 
stays  while  I  recline.     If  the  day  ever  come 


8o  The  Devil's  Plough 

when  I  set  the  fashion,  women  shall  not  be 
expected  to  be  beautifully  fat  and  beautifully 
small  about  the  waist  at  the  same  time. 
There,  that's  better.  Jeanne,  tell  De  la 
Mothe  about  your  Jansenist  priest  to  con- 
sole her  for  the  Jesuit." 

From  across  the  room  a  lady  busy  with 
her  embroidery  answered,  "  My  confessor 
deprived  me  of  the  Easter  communion  be- 
cause I  trimmed  my  handkerchief  with  lace." 

"  Heavens  !  There  isn't  much  choice, 
then,  —  except  that  Jesuit  discipline  is  more 
lively.  Isn't  that  so  ?  "  Again  they  all 
laughed  behind  their  zephyrs.  "  But  let 
me  tell  you,"  continued  De  la  Mothe,  evad- 
ing a  rose  shower  from  the  hand  of  De 
Pous,  "  about  the  new  hairdresser." 

"  Oh,  do  !  do  !  do  !  "  came  from  every 
side. 

"  You  must  all  try  Champagne.  He's 
as  heavenly  as  he  is  impudent.  This  morn- 
ing, before  we  set  out  for  the  chase,  I  had 
him  arrange  my  hair  to  the  best  advantage 
of  my  new  capeline.  What  do  you  think  ? 
He  actually  arranged  one  side,  then  refused 
to  do  the  other  unless  I  kissed  him  ! " 


The  Devil's  Plough 


"  Kiss  a  hairdresser  !  Heavens  !  Horri- 
ble !     Did  you  do  it?" 

"  Do  it  ?  Of  course  I  did.  How  could  I 
have  gone  otherwise  ?  How  did  you  like 
him,  countess  ? "  she  asked  De  Joinville, 
who  replied,  still  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
"  Excellently  well,  my  dear.  You  girls  must 
be  careful  of  him,  though,  —  I  am  older. 
He  makes  no  charges,  —  takes  exactly  what 
one  offers  him ;  but  the  first  time,  I  did  not 
give  him  enough  to  suit  his  fancy,  and  the 
second  he  refused  to  come  to  me.  Listen  !  " 
Her  eyes  strained.  She  listened  acutely. 
"  Something  is  happening  outside.  Observe 
the  people  !  Hear  them  !  This  is  dread- 
ful ! " 

The  ladies  ran  to  the  windows,  where  they 
looked  over  each  other's  shoulders  excit- 
edly. "  The  people  are  rising  !  "  cried  one. 
"  Hear  that !  "  "  Countess,  put  your  arm 
around  me;  I'm  frightened!"  "What  if 
they  should  attack  the  palace  ! "  "  The  car- 
dinal will  be  the  ruin  of  France !  "  the  ladies 
cried  out  to  each  other. 

Outside,  skirting  the  royal  gardens,  past 
the  Louvre  and  Church  of  Saint  Germain, 


82  The  Devil's  Plough 

there  came  running  and  shouting  a  riotous 
mob  of  people  from  the  quays  and  market- 
place, leading  a  squealing  pig,  at  which  they 
threw  carrots  and  stones  from  sling-shots, 
screaming,  violently :  "  Down  with  Maz- 
arin  !  "  "  Down  with  the  Bon  Ami !  We 
want  Beaufort,  Roi  des  Halles !  Gondi ! 
Gondi !  Down  with  the  pig  !  He  eats  the 
people's  earnings  !  "  One  Amazon,  carry- 
ing a  stick,  shook  it  at  the  ladies  looking  out 
from  the  window,  and  howled  at  them, 
"  Dames  des  Madame  Anne  !  Down  with 
bad  women ! " 

The  ladies  huddled  together  in  alarm. 
At  that  moment,  to  the  rear  of  the  mob, 
there  appeared  a  Jesuit  priest,  walking  alone. 
"  Father  Gaston  !  "  exclaimed  Comtesse  de 
Joinville,  leaning  far  out  of  the  window. 
"  There  is  no  more  occasion  for  alarm.  He 
will  quiet  them." 

She  was  right.  L'Artanges  without  hesi- 
tation moved  among  the  mob  of  people, 
laying  a  quieting  hand  on  this  one's  shoulder, 
speaking  a  short  word  of  warning  to  another, 
taking  the  stick  away  from  the  howling  Am- 
azon, and  making  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross 


The  Devil's  Plough  83 

on  her  bare  breast.  After  ten  minutes'  exer- 
tion of  this  influence,  the  crowd  began  to 
disperse,  still  muttering  and  shaking  their 
fists  at  the  palace.  Before  an  hour  had 
elapsed,  the  place  was  quiet,  except  for  an 
occasional  horseman,  pedestrian,  or  coach 
passing.  One  of  the  first  ripples  of  the 
French  Revolution  had  been  turned  back  by 
the  Jesuit  rod  of  kindness. 

The  noise  in  the  streets  had  brought  the 
queen  in  alarm  from  her  devotions  to  a  con- 
cealed position  near  a  window  in  her  private 
apartment.  There  she  stood,  watching  an 
uproar  primarily  of  her  own  making.  Each 
of  her  arms  encircled  one  of  her  young  sons 
protectingly.  Louis,  a  wilful  lad,  struggled 
to  release  himself,  in  order  that  he  might 
look  closer  at  the  proceedings  from  the  win- 
dow. Anne  held  him  back,  but  he  cried 
out,  "  Why  don't  you  tell  them  to  be  still, 
Madame?  Tou  are  the  queen."  She  was 
silent.  Again  he  tried  to  reach  the  window, 
crying  out,  with  a  strut  of  his  childish  body 
and  toss  of  his  head,  "/  will  command  them, 
Madame,  /,  who  am  to  be  their  king." 

"  Be  quiet,  my  son,  your  time  has  not  yet 


84  The  Devil's  Plough 

come.  See  the  priest  talking  to  them.  He 
will  make  them  behave." 

"  But,  Madame,  will  you  permit  a  priest 
to  do  your  duty  ?  I  ought  to  be  king  now. 
Then  no  priest  would  tell  me  or  the  people 
what  to  do." 

Anne  sighed,  and  the  three  stood  watch- 
ing the  people  disperse.  Presently  she 
spoke  to  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse,  stand- 
ing at  some  distance  back  in  the  room 
wringing  her  hands  in  suppressed  alarm : 
"  Duchess,  you  will  order  that  the  Jesuit 
priest.  Father  L'Artanges,  be  admitted  to 
private  audience  at  once,  on  his  arrival  at  the 
palace."  And  the  queen  led  her  sons  back 
to  their  instructor,  stationed  in  an  adjoining 
room. 

When,  a  short  time  after,  L'Artanges  was 
conducted  through  the  antechamber  into  the 
presence  of  the  queen,  the  ladies  received 
him  with  exclamations  of  gratitude.  He 
bowed  courteously  from  right  to  left,  with- 
out pausing  or  speaking,  until  the  Comtesse 
de  Joinville  approached  him  with  "  Father, 
you  are  to-day  France's  great  benefactor." 
He  delayed  one  moment,  looked  at  her  fair 


The  Devil's  Plough  85 

face,  still  white  with  alarm,  and  replied, 
courteously,  "  'Tis  no  small  matter,  if  I  have 
relieved  Comtesse  de  Joinville  of  one  mo- 
ment's uneasiness,"  then  passed  behind  the 
queen's  tapestry. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  they  all  cried 
out. 

"  Oh,  he  made  me  a  compliment,"  replied 
the  countess,  twisting  one  long  ringlet  over 
her  forefinger.  "  You  know  L'Artanges  is 
ever  ready  with  whatever  serves  his  purpose. 
As  Ninon  de  L'Enclos  says,  *  A  Jesuit  is 
a  piece  of  sealing-wax :  it  softens  before  it 
takes  firm  hold.'" 

"  Still,  he  never  minds  his  words  where 
he  knows  his  power,"  said  De  Pous.  "  Do 
you  remember  that  time  at  mass  in  the 
chapel,  when,  in  the  midst  of  his  sermon,  he 
thundered  out,  *  Awaken !  Awaken  that  abbe 
who  is  asleep,  and  who  is  only  here  to  pay 
his  court  to  royalty?'  The  Abbe  Fouquer, 
sitting  near  me,  jumped  as  if  he  had  been 
stabbed  from  behind,  and  his  peruke  fell  oflF 
at  the  very  moment,  showing  a  bald  head 
such  as  nobody  had  suspected.  Oh,  L'Ar- 
tanges   knows    nothing  of  fear,  and    he  is 


86  The  Devil's  Plough 

without  doubt  the  best-looking  priest  in 
Paris." 

"  So  young  for  a  priest,  too,  I  do  desire 
that  he  confess  me.  I  made  the  request ;  he 
refused,  but  he  confesses  Heloise  de  Lune- 
ville,"  another  lady  continued.  "  He  can't 
be,  at  most,  more  than  forty  years  old,  and 
to  my  mind  he  is  better  looking  than  his 
brother,  since  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  cut  off 
his  imperial  and  moustaches." 

"  De  Chatillon  swears  he'll  never  grow 
them  again  until  Heloise  is  his." 

"  An  uncongenial  husband  in  the  Bastille 
is  not  a  serious  obstacle.  Perchance  they 
will  grow  over  night  sometime." 

They  all  laughed,  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Hauteville,  coming  in  during  the  last  re- 
mark, observed,  with  the  assumption  of 
naughtiness  in  tone  and  eye  then  much 
the  fashion  at  court,  "  My  mother  used  to 
say,  *  I  have  observed  one  thing  in  France,  — 
honour  grows  again  as  well  as  hair.'  The 
countess  may  grow  several  crops  before  De 
Luneville  and  Beaufort  forget  the  Bastille 
and  Vincennes.  Ladies,  six  duels  were 
fought   in    Paris    this    morning.     D'Apres 


The  Devil's  Plough  87 

killed  De  Goncourt  with  one  thrust." 
And  so  the  slippery  minds  of  the  ladies 
were  led  into  another  stream  of  scandal. 

In  the  queen's  apartment  L'Artanges  was 
received  in  silence.  After  acknowledging 
his  obeisance,  Anne  of  Austria  sat  looking 
down  at  a  crucifix  she  held  in  one  hand, 
without  signifying  by  her  facial  expression 
approval  or  the  reverse.  L'Artanges  stood 
quietly  looking  at  his  queen. 

At  last  she  spoke  slowly,  "  Monsieur  le 
recteur,  you  have  this  day  saved  yourself 
from  future  annoyance." 

"  Yes,  Madame  the  Queen,"  he  replied, 
watching  her  carefully. 

"  You  suppressed  the  rabble  in  the  streets, 
for  which  we  are  grateful."  Anne's  face 
looked  less  heavy  and  uninteresting  for 
the  moment.  "  As  I  said,  we  are  grateful, 
and  feel  inclined  to  be  lenient  with  your 
indiscretions." 

"  Yes,  Madame  the  Queen." 

"  We  sent  for  you  to  warn  you  against 
further  pulpit  disloyalty.  The  cardinal  can- 
not forgive.  His  influence  at  Rome  may 
already  have  ruined  you ;  but  after  to-day, 


The  Devil's  Plough 


if  it  is  not  too  late,  no  intelligence  of 
your  indiscretions  shall  reach  the  general, 
provided  your  future  influence  be  now 
pledged  in  behalf  of  the  throne,  and  — " 
she  hesitated,  glanced  swiftly  at  him, 
then  away  again  —  "and  the  throne's  ad- 
visers." 

"  May  I  have  the  honour  to  know  to  what 
indiscretions  Madame  the  Queen  refers  ? " 
asked  L'Artanges,  carefully  choosing  his 
words. 

"  They  need  not  be  indicated.  The 
throne  has  a  vigilant  eye,  so  has  the  gen- 
eral of  the  Jesuits.  You  have  a  brother. 
Monsieur  de  Chatillon  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  brother,  Madame  the  Queen. 
A  Jesuit  dies  to  his  relatives  on  taking  his 
vows." 

She  raised  her  eyes  again.  "  Perchance 
your  influence  over  him  is  not  so  entirely 
dead  as  it  would  seem  to  be.  Advise  your 
brother  discreetly,  monsieur  le  recteur,  for 
we  are  deeply  grateful  after  to-day.  Are 
we  to  beUeve  that  Father  Gaston  is  our 
loyal   subject.''" 

"That   he  is,   Father    Gaston    has   fully 


The  Devil's  Plough  89 

revealed  to-day,  Madame  the  Queen,"  he 
replied,  looking  full  into  her  eyes. 

"  And  that  he  will  continue  so  ?  " 

"  Without  doubt,  Madame  the  Queen. 
Now  and  always." 

"In  event  of  that,  the  general  at  Rome 
can  be  made  to  understand  that  he  has 
been  misinformed  if  misleading  statements 
reach  him.  You  are  dismissed."  Suddenly 
changing  her  tone,  Anne  leaned  toward  him 
with  human  fear  in  her  eyes.  "  Help  us 
with  the  people.  Father  Gaston,  and  give 
a  weak,  lonely  woman  absolution." 

L'Artanges  was  undoubtedly  surprised, 
but  having  been  reared  in  an  excellent 
school  of  self-control,  he  complied  with 
her  request  without  apparent  hesitation. 
Gravely  he  listened  to  the  confession  of 
this  lonely  woman,  bound  completely  in 
the  grasp  of  an  unscrupulous  man  whom 
she  both  loved  and  feared. 

At  his  concluding  words  of  absolution, 
"  Go  and  sin  no  more.  Pray  for  me,"  the 
queen  arose  from  her  knees,  evidently  en- 
couraged and  more  hopeful.  "  The  world 
can  never  know  the  bitterness  of  my  life," 


90  The  Devil's  Plough 

she  muttered,  half  aloud.  "  A  queen  is 
only  a  woman,  after  all  is  said.  Your  ser- 
mon touched  my  soul.  My  own  confessor 
was  not  enough.  I  needed  your  faith  in 
support."  Father  Gaston  made  no  sign 
of  comprehension,  but  respectfully  kissed 
her  proffered  hand  sympathetically  and 
went  out. 

Once  outside,  his  face  relaxed ;  he  walked 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  along  the  streets, 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  his  eyes  held 
in  custody.  But  once  he  smiled  as  does 
a  successful  man  to  himself. 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the 
approach  of  porters  bearing  a  chair.  A 
woman's  voice  called  out,  "  Father  Gaston ! 
Set  me  down,  Jacques,  I  desire  a  word  with 
the  father."  He  knew  the  voice.  The 
Comtesse  de  Luneville  was  speaking.  Ar- 
rayed in  a  silver-blue  silk  costume  em- 
broidered with  pearls,  and  with  pearls 
twined  in  her  russet  hair,  she  looked 
forth,  a  glimpse  of  delight  to  any  man  of 
good  taste  in  beauty.  But  her  deep  eyes 
were  troubled,  like  lakes  reflecting  blue 
skies  and  passing  clouds. 


The  Devil's  Plough  91 

"  Father  Gaston,  I  must  speak  with  you. 
Have  you  seen  Paul  ?  It  is  rumoured  that 
he  is  to  fight  Comte  de  Bouteville.  I  have 
just  stopped  at  Madame  de  Sevigne's  on 
my  way  to  Voiture's  supper,  and  there  I 
heard  that  Paul  had  said  De  Bouteville's 
thrust  was  not  so  good  as  Saint-Evre- 
mond's,  and  that  De  Bouteville  is  seeking 
him  with  a  challenge.  I  have  not  seen 
Paul  for  two  weeks,  as  was  my  promise 
to  you.  Has  the  decree  against  duelling 
no  force  ?  Must  a  woman  see  her  friends 
slaughtered  before  her  face  for  some  silly 
word  ? " 

"  Ah,  countess,  a  woman  is  only  con- 
cerned when  the  duellist  is  her  own  friend. 
How  is  it  when  some  other  woman's  friend 
is  challenged  ?  Why  do  you  not  influence 
all  the  women  to  discountenance  the  evil 
practice  ?  Then  the  cardinal's  edict  would 
have  some  force."  The  priest  seemed  to 
be  talking  to  gain  time.  He  had  removed 
his  hat  and  now  shielded  his  eyes  from 
the  last  rays  of  the  evening  sun.  "  A  great 
lady  should  not  lend  a  hand  to  the  devil's 
plough." 


92  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  But,  father,"  she  replied,  "  I  have  no 
time  to  argue  now.  If  Paul  should  fight 
before  I  see  him  once  more  ! "  She  covered 
her  face  to  shut  out  the  thought.  "At 
your  advice  I  have  kept  him  from  me  —  " 

"  But  now,  countess  ?  "  The  priest 
brought  his  hat  around  in  front  of  him 
and  stared  down  at  it. 

"  But  now  I  shall  seek  Paris  over  until 
I  find  him  and  know  the  truth." 

"  Countess,  remember  your  promise.  A 
Jesuit's  brother  is  no  more  to  him  than 
any  other  human  soul ;  but  in  behalf  of 
every  man  trying  to  do  right,  I  beseech 
you  to  keep  away  from  Paul  de  Chatillon 
unless  he  seeks  you  out." 

The  countess  leaned  out,  beckoned  her 
porters,  who  had  retired  out  of  hearing, 
and  replied,  "  Good  evening.  Father  Gaston. 
A  woman's  heart  is  her  straight  road  to 
paradise." 


Chapter  VI 

THAT  night  a  thunder-storm  rolled 
over  Paris.  The  following  morning 
broke  clear  and  cooler,  with  a  sun  sufficiently 
warm,  however,  to  raise  moisture  from  the 
wet  ground  and  vegetation  in  nauseous 
vapours,  owing  to  the  prevailing  filth  of  the 
streets. 

At  noon  the  people  of  the  markets  were 
well  through  a  day's  work.  The  streets  in 
the  vicinity  of  Notre  Dame  sounded  lively 
with  the  clatter  of  market-women  and  huck- 
sters returning  home  with  their  meagre  gains 
of  the  morning.  Pierre,  of  the  Jesuit  col- 
lege, came  along,  conducting  his  pretty 
daughter  to  her  home  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  He  was  careful  of  Madelon, 
his  one  choice  possession,  sole  living  re- 
minder of  her  mother,  now  in  heaven,  if 
prayers  purchased  in  behalf  of  the  dead 
wife's  salvation  had  any  virtue.  In  one 
93 


94  The  Devil's  Plough 

hand  Pierre  carried  a  basket  of  fish,  in  the 
other  a  stout  stick,  without  which  he  was 
never  seen  when  accompanied  by  the  little 
daughter. 

"  The  air  smells,  Madelon,"  said  Pierre, 
twisting  up  his  nose. 

"  Yes,  father,  so  do  the  fish,"  replied  the 
sweet-faced  girl  with  tender  eyes,  turning 
her  head  away  from  him  playfully. 

"  Ah,  the  beautiful  fish  !  Their  smell  is  as 
sweet  as  a  rose  when  thou  hast  once  learned 
to  like  it."  Pierre  looked  affectionately  down 
at  his  fish.  The  girl  made  another  grimace 
of  distaste.  "  See  how  the  scales  shine,  little 
daughter.  Thine  eyes  in  the  morning  light 
are  not  finer."  He  looked  up  at  her  ad- 
miringly. She  was  intent  upon  the  crowds 
crossing  the  Pont  Notre  Dame  ahead  of 
them,  and  scarcely  heeded  the  compliment, 
something  very  customary  from  her  father 
to  his  little  daughter. 

"  Madelon,"  continued  Pierre,  scanning 
her  costume  carefully,  "  thou  wearest  the 
girdle  of  silver  to-day.  How  is  that  ?  The 
countess  gave  it  thee  for  fete  days,  not  for 
the  daily  labour." 


The  Devil's   Plough  95 

"  Oh,  father,"  she  replied,  carelessly,  "  I 
go  to  carry  flowers  to  the  house  of  great 
ladies  this  afternoon,  then  to  the  Bastille." 

"  Why  to  the  Bastille  ?  "  he  asked,  anx- 
iously. 

"  Not  to  stay,  father,"  she  laughed,  re- 
assuringly, "  but  to  sell  to  the  governor, 
whose  taste  is  for  flowers.  The  Bastille  is 
but  an  inn  with  stout  walls,  where  fine  gen- 
tlemen are  kept  out  of  mischief.  The  poor 
are  not  good  enough  for  such  society,  unless 
evil  be  intended."  There  was  a  bitterness 
in  her  tone,  unexpected  as  the  worm  at  the 
heart  of  a  bright  red  apple. 

"  Madelon,"  said  her  father,  gravely, 
"thou  say'st  thy  prayers  morning  and 
evening  ? " 

"Yes,  father." 

"Thou  confesseth  weekly,  little  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Thou  goest  muth  into  danger  alone  in  the 
city,  but  so  good  a  maiden  the  Holy  Mother 
will  protect.    Ah,  if  thy  mother  but  lived  !  " 

They  approached  the  bridge.  Some  ex- 
citement stirred  among  the  crowds  crossing. 


96  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Fine  gentlemen  out  on  their  pleasures, 
father."  Again  the  gentle  voice  sounded 
hard.  "  Robbing  the  people  for  pleasure, 
or  plaguing  us  like  boys  with  a  dog's  tail. 
The  time  will  come  when  all  people  shall 
be  alike.  Look  there,  father  !  Robbery  ! 
Did  I  not  say  it  ?  " 

"  Madelon,  stand  behind  me.  We  are 
safe.     I  see  the  archers  coming." 

Close  by  the  end  of  the  bridge  they 
approached,  there  stood  at  that  time  the 
statue  of  a  bronze  horse.  Upon  this  horse, 
astride,  one  behind  the  other,  sat  two  counts 
of  ancient  lineage  in  drunken  glee,  pretend- 
ing to  gallop  away,  while  beneath  them, 
just  where  the  bridge  began,  a  dozen  or  so 
of  their  irresponsible  followers  —  for  the 
purpose  of  putting  a  fine  point  of  pleasure 
upon  a  night  of  carousal  extending  far  into 
the  day  —  were,  by  force,  despoiling  the 
bridge  passengers  of  their  cloaks  and  hats. 
Resistance  to  this  diversibn  was  rapidly  cre- 
ating a  brawl,  when  a  company  of  mounted 
archers  was  seen  approaching  at  galloping 
speed. 

The  elegant  robbers,  on  perceiving  their 


The  Devil's  Plough  97 

danger  through  hazy  eyes,  made  off  in  the 
other  direction,  but. the  Comtes  d'Harcourt 
and  Rochefort,  sitting  aloft,  had  reached  a 
mental  state  of  rotary  motion,  since  mount- 
ing their  high  horse,  greatly  interfering  with 
successful  flight  in  a  straight  line.  The 
archers  arrived  in  time  to  arrest  their  un- 
certain steps  and  carry  them  ignominiously 
back  into  the  presence  of  the  unbalanced  mu- 
nicipal justice  existing  at  the  period,  to  the 
vociferous  joy  of  the  crowds  on  the  Pont 
Notre  Dame,  expressed  by  howls  of  derision. 
This  episode  deterred  Pierre  from  his 
purpose  of  conducting  the  little  daughter 
to  her  tiny  home  surrounded  by  a  propor- 
tionately minute  garden,  where  the  girl  cul- 
tivated flowers  for  sale  at  the  markets. 
"  Madelon,"  said  Pierre,  "  my  little  daugh- 
ter must  take  no  risks.  Those  gentlemanly 
villains  may  return  across  the  bridge  after 
the  archers  have  gone.  We  will  turn  back. 
Father  Gaston  will  permit  thee  a  seat  in  the 
kitchen  until  thou  must  sell  thy  flowers  to 
the  great  ladies.  Come."  He  hurried  her 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  college  appre- 
hensively. 


98  The  Devil's  Plough 

"Just  give  me  a  bite  to  eat,  father," 
Madelon  insisted,  when  they  arrived.  "  A 
woman  must  not  be  seen  here.  Then  I 
will  take  what  flowers  I  have  to  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Luneville.  She  will  forgive  their 
wilted  look  when  I  tell  her  my  reason  for 
carrying  them  to  her  in  such  fashion.  She 
likes  not  drunkards,  even  though  they  be 
gentlemen." 

"Thou  still  sell'st  the  flowers  to  the 
countess,  little  daughter  ? "  Pierre  asked, 
meanwhile  spreading  for  her  a  piece  of 
bread  with  soft  cheese  procured  from  the 
great  pantry,  where  the  cook  was  heard 
kneading  bread  and  whistling  blithely. 

Madelon  listened  and  smiled.  "Jean 
whistles  not  a  pious  tune,  my  father.  But 
a  lay  brother  is  not  a  priest."  Then  perch- 
ing herself  upon  a  high  settle  just  inside  the 
door,  she  answered  her  father's  question. 
"Yes,  my  father;  the  countess  loves  the 
flowers,  and  she  makes  me  sit  beside  her 
bed,  if  no  great  ladies  be  there,  and  tell 
her  how  the  people  live,  and  how  I  grow 
my  flowers  better  than  any  others  in  Paris." 

"  The  count  he  is  in  the  Bastille  because  of 


The  Devil's  Plough  99 

the  great  Beaufort,  —  is  it  not  so?"  Pierre 
asked  idly,  out  of  no  special  curiosity. 

"Yes,  father,"  replied  the  girl,  looking 
quickly  at  him,  then  down  at  her  bread  and 
cheese.  "  I  must  hurry  and  be  going,  or 
she  will  be  displeased.  She  will  not  leave 
her  bed  until  two  o'clock,  unless,  having  no 
one  to  amuse  her,  or  no  new  book  to  read, 
she  suddenly  goes  out  in  the  coach  or  to 
ride  her  horse  through  the  woods.  No  one 
ever  knows  what  the  countess  may  do  the 
next  minute." 

The  girl  was  an  attractive  picture,  sitting 
there  in  her  simple  blue  bodice  and  petti- 
coats, wearing  on  her  abundant  hair  a  coif 
whose  white  bravolette  hung  gracefliUy 
down  behind  upon  her  shoulders.  A  huge 
cut  of  bread  rapidly  diminished  between  her 
teeth,  small  and  delicate  as  those  of  a  mouse ; 
her  feet,  in  stout  black  pattens,  swung  just 
clear  of  the  floor,  owing  to  the  height  of  her 
seat.  Madelon's  face  contained  a  rainbow 
of  emotions  ;  the  reflection  of  a  little  child, 
a  motherly  woman,  and  a  charming  girl 
hurried  swiftly  over  her  countenance  while 
she  talked. 


lOO  The  Devil's  Plough 

Pierre  sat  on  a  stool  just  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  cleaning  his  fish  in  a  pan 
placed  between  his  feet  on  the  ground.  He 
shook  his  head  at  mention  of  Comtesse  de 
Luneville's  hour  of  rising.  "  God  did  not 
intend  his  people  to  sleep  by  day  and  go 
abroad  by  night.  The  horse  and  the  cow  — 
yes,  even  the  pig  and  the  donkey  —  know 
better." 

"  I  must  be  going,  father.  The  bread 
was  good.  I  get  hungry  by  this  time  of 
day.  Thou  wilt  come  to-morrow  ?  'Tis 
my  desire  that  thou  shalt  see  the  first  red 
rose  of  the  spring.  It  looks  to  have  been 
grown  from  a  drop  of  blood.  'Tis  the  first 
rose  in  Paris  this  year.  The  Holy  Virgin 
smiles  upon  my  flowers,  and  they  bloom." 

Pierre  dropped  his  fish  and  knife,  his 
eyes  set  upon  the  distant  river;  slowly, 
indistinctly,  his  words  came :  "  A  drop  of 
blood,  —  a  rose.  That  was  my  dream  last 
night.  I  saw  the  lilies  of  France  changing 
into  drops  of  blood,  falling  to  earth,  where 
men  lay  dead  or  sleeping,  and  there  they 
grew  again,  —  blood-red  roses." 

Madelon  shuddered  slightly.     "  Art  thou 


The  Devil's  Plough  loi 

dreaming  again,  little  father  ?  "  She  arose 
and  patted  his  head  affectionately.  "  Pray- 
to  the  Virgin  for  pretty  dreams,  little  father. 
The  Holy  Mother  will  send  them,  because 
thou  art  good.  Now  I  must  go.  Are  the 
flowers  much  faded?  I'll  take  them  out  of 
the  water  and  arrange  them  prettily  in  the 
basket  once  more." 

This  she  did,  picking  out  a  few  of  her 
choice  spring  growth  and  bunching  them 
tastefully.  "  Father,"  she  said,  coming 
close  to  Pierre,  "  these  thou  wilt  put  on 
Father  Gaston's  table?  He  is  so  kind, — 
so  kind  to  the  poor."  Then  she  kissed  her 
little  father  and  departed. 

Pierre  took  the  flowers,  but  said  nothing. 
He  shook  his  head  as  he  watched  her  dis- 
appear down  the  street  leading  to  the  fashion- 
able quarter  of  Paris.  "My  little  daughter 
is  too  pretty  to  go  alone  in  the  city  where 
the  devil  ploughs  up  evil  every  day.  If  1 
but  had  some  golden  louis,  it  should  not  be. 
But  that  is  all."  Out  of  his  pocket  he  took 
a  sou,  looking  down  at  it  sadly,  and  still 
shaking  his  head.  Questioningly  he  looked 
away    toward    the   river.     "  Who    knows  ? 


I02  The  Devil's  Plough 

Perchance  in  New  France  things  might  be 
better  —  if  she  would  go  too.  'Tis  better 
to  be  eaten  alive  than  have  a  girl's  soul 
damned." 

Pierre  was  restless  in  his  sleep  again  that 
night.  The  sight  of  Madelon  eaten  alive  by 
savages  with  long  tails  haunted  his  dreams. 

While  Pierre  had  been  risking  the  Jesuit 
reputation  by  refreshing  his  little  daughter 
at  the  kitchen  door  of  the  college,  Comtesse 
de  Luneville  lay  on  her  ///  d'ange  of  gold, 
trimmed  in  Chinese  gauze  and  flame-coloured 
silk  several  shades  lighter  than  her  own 
beautiful  hair.  The  canopy  overhead,  pro- 
tecting her  precious  body  from  draughts,  was 
decorated  after  the  same  luxurious  manner, 
in  perfect  accord  with  the  other  decorations 
of  an  apartment  typical  of  a  profligate  period, 
when  even  the  example  of  royal  pecuniary 
discretion  proved  no  check  upon  the  waste- 
ful extravagance  of  nobility.  Indeed,  it 
permitted  a  certain  freedom  in  fashion  and 
manners  impossible  before,  or  afterward, 
during  the  rococo  maturity  and  pious  old 
age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  Throughout 
the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  the  seeds  of  political 


The  Devil's  Plough  103 

liberty  sown  by  Parliament  and  the  rebellious 
nobles  extended  their  sprouts  in  many  direc- 
tions, flourishing  bravely  about  all  questions 
of  dress  and  deportment. 

Great  open  fireplaces  were  built  at  either 
end  of  the  Comtesse  de  Luneville's  sleeping- 
apartment,  wherein  crackled,  and  occasion- 
ally smoked,  logs  of  wood  supported  by 
bronze  fire-dogs.  On  the  mantel  above  one 
of  the  fireplaces  ticked  an  ornate  clock,  ac- 
companied by  flowers  blooming  in  decorated 
pots  on  either  side  of  the  timepiece.  A 
candelabra  of  gold,  supported  by  marble 
cupids,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  in  close 
harmony  with  the  gracefully  frescoed  walls 
and  ceiling.  An  inlaid  cabinet  stood  against 
the  wall  opposite,  and  above  it  hung  por- 
traits of  the  lady's  parents,  whom  she  had 
left  in  Gascony  at  an  early  age,  when  she 
became,  not  altogether  willingly,  a  Parisian 
countess. 

The  book  cabinet  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room  was  filled  with  the  best  reading 
obtainable,  for,  in  a  slight  measure,  the 
countess  affected  the  precieuse  turn  of  mind. 
Although   in   no  sense  of  the  word  a  blue- 


I04  The  Devil's  Plough 

stocking,  the  atmosphere  of  the  Hotel  Ram- 
bouillet,  which  she  frequented,  had  coloured 
and  directed  her  recent  education.  At  one 
side  of  the  bookcase  there  hung,  attached 
to  the  wall,  a  unique  candelabra  made  of 
wrought  brass,  encircling  a  mirror,  at  whose 
base  was  fastened  a  hand  modelled  in  brass, 
holding  a  candle  which,  when  lighted,  was 
reflected  with  mysterious  efi^ect  in  the  mirror. 
It  also  reflected  glimpses  of  the  room,  and 
of  a  Gobelin  tapestry  hung  near  by  as  a 
means  of  exit  into  the  antechamber.  Sofas, 
chairs,  and  tabourets  stood  grouped  with 
the  social  ease  of  courtiers ;  indeed,  there 
was  ever  about  Heloise  de  Luneville  and 
her  possessions  an  atmosphere  of  irre- 
sistible insinuating  charm,  unobtrusive  but 
indelible. 

As  the  lady  lay  there  in  a  d'eshabill^  of 
silk  and  lace,  the  sunlight  caught  her  wavy 
hair  falling  in  long  burnished  strands  across 
the  bolster,  where  they  braided  with  shafts 
of  light.  Heloise's  natural  pallor  but  em- 
phasised the  strong  colour  of  her  hair  and 
eyes.  That  day  this  pallor  was  exaggerated. 
Heloise  de  Luneville  had  restless  eyes,  and 


The  Devil's  Plough  105 

beneath  them  a  few  rare  wrinkles  showed. 
She  was  at  the  moment  alone,  several  friends 
having  but  lately  departed  after  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  an  exchange  of  news  with  the 
countess,  who,  as  was  the  custom,  received 
in  bed  every  morning  between  the  hours  of 
ten  and  two.  With  a  slight  yawn  she  threw 
aside  the  book  she  was  reading,  and  spoke 
audibly  to  her  own  soul.  There  was  no 
one  to  hear  unless  it  were  the  serving  maid 
removing  coffee-cups,  or  an  elderly  com- 
panion sitting  at  her  embroidery  in  the 
antechamber. 

"  Ninon  was  not  altogether  wrong  when 
she  said,  '  We  feel  our  wings  just  before 
they  moult.'  Voiture  always  says  a  par- 
ticularly good  thing  immediately  before  he 
makes  me  yawn,"  was  what  the  lady  ad- 
dressed to  her  soul,  —  the  tangible,  omni- 
present companion  of  a  precieusCy  but  in  this 
case  unresponsive  until  after  the  lady  had 
gazed  idly  at  the  frescoed  cupids  on  the  ceil- 
ing during  a  wasteful  length  of  time,  when 
her  soul  seemed  to  have  something  to  say. 
"  *  I  am  stricken  as  hay,  and  my  heart  is 
dried  up  ;  behold  our  languor  and  old  age.' 


io6  The  Devil's  Plough 

Father  Gaston  could  not  have  chosen  a 
more  appropriate  text  for  me  and  my 
friends.  But  how  much  better  off  are  we 
after  hearing  his  words  ?  Is  there  any  dew 
from  heaven  that  could  refresh  our  hearts  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  mine  looks  as  dry  as  it 
feels  since  I  promised  Father  Gaston  to 
send  Paul  from  me  ?  Ah  me !  Ah  me ! 
'Tis  difficult  to  live  ! " 

Heloise  bade  the  serving  maid  leave  the 
room,  then  turned  over  on  her  face  in  bed 
and  lay  in  silent  desolation.  The  clock 
ticked,  a  log  cracked  and  burst  into  flame  in 
the  fireplace,  but  there  were  no  other  sounds 
until  the  unfortunate  lady  sobbed  once,  then 
sat  up  laughing  piteously.  "  If  I  go  to 
purgatory,  he  will  be  there,  too.  'Twill  be 
a  merry  place.     I  have  decided." 

A  scratching  came  on  the  tapestry.  "  En- 
ter," said  the  countess,  beginning  to  sing, 
with  an  excellent  assumption  of  tuneful 
pleasure : 

** '  Mais  aimer  et  vous  voir  aimee 
Est  une  douce  liaison. 
Qui  dans  votre  coeur  s'est  forme* 
Dc  concert  avec  la  raison.*  " 


The  Devil's  Plough  loy 

"  Madame  la  comtesse,  the  flower-girl  is 
here,"  announced  the  serving  maid,  entering. 

"  Madelon  ?  I  am  glad.  Bring  her  to 
me.  Her  innocence  is  diverting ;  and  still 
she  knows  much  of  life  that  I  do  not." 

Madelon  on  entering  made  a  deep  rever- 
ence before  the  lady,  who  bade  the  maid 
retire,  taking  the  girl's  flowers  into  her  own 
hands  with  evident  pleasure. 

"  The  early  blossoms  resemble  thee,  little 
one,"  she  said.  "Thou  art  tender  and 
sweet  in  the  same  way.  Sit  beside  me  on 
that  tabouret,  child.  I  have  many  things  to 
speak  with  thee  about." 

"  You  do  me  much  honour,  madame  la 
comtesse."  Madelon  sat  down  timidly.  It 
was  her  custom  to  stand  in  the  presence 
of  the  great. 

"  Little  one,  is  thy  heart  ever  as  dry  as 
hay  when  the  rain  doth  not  fall  in  season  ? " 
Heloise  held  the  flowers  before  her  face. 

"  I  do  not  remember  it  so,  madame  la 
comtesse." 

"  Little  one,  wert  thou  ever  tempted  ? 
Hast  thou  ever  heard  Satan's  voice  ?  " 

A  flush  spread  upward  from   Madelon's 


io8  The  Devil's  Plough 

neck ;  she  hesitated.  "  I  have  heard  his 
voice,  —  but  —  but  the  Holy  Mother  was 
there  also.     I  had  fear  but  for  one  moment." 

A  look  of  disagreeable  intelligence  crossed 
the  lady's  face.  She  paused  to  debate  some 
question  in  her  own  mind.  "  Thou  wilt 
tell  me  about  that,  little  one  ? "  she  finally 
asked. 

"If  madame  la  comtesse  will  excuse 
me  —  "     The  girl  looked  distressed. 

"  But  I  know  already,  child.  To  my 
shame,  I  know.  Satan  was  the  Comte  de 
Luneville  ?  You  passed  along  the  corridor 
—  he  addressed  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  madame  !  "  cried  Madelon,  blushing 
deeply,  and  covering  her  face  with  both 
hands. 

"  Yes,  that  was  my  husband.  He  told  it 
afterward,  and  how  sweet  thou  wert  even 
when  resisting,  and  I  happened  to  overhear. 
The  gentlemen  of  France  are  not  always 
discreet,  —  sometimes  they  find  their  way  to 
the  Bastille."  Heloise's  shame  of  her  hus- 
band was  turning  to  wrath. 

"  Madame,  I  hoped  you  might  never  know 
— you  are  so  lovely  —  ah,  madame  !  "    Tears 


The  Devil's  Plough  109 

stood  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  looked  at  the 
lady's  face. 

"  Little  Madelon,  thank  the  Virgin  that 
thou  art  but  a  humble  flower-girl,  and  not  a 
great  lady  who  must  wed  at  her  parents'  dis- 
cretion. God  !  'Tis  an  unholy  traffic  !  " 
The  Comtesse  de  Luneville  closed  her  eyes 
bitterly  ;  she  had  long  ceased  to  weep.  Tears 
in  a  woman's  eyes  tell  of  new  suflFering,  not 
of  a  sorrow  woven  into  the  fibres  of  her 
heart. 

"  Little  one,  thou  art  loyal  to  me.  I 
could  not  speak  so  to  my  other  friends. 
But  one's  heart  must  find  relief  from  shame, 
else  the  poison  may  enter  into  one's  blood. 
Madelon,  I  was  as  thou  art  when  I  first 
came  to  Paris,  —  may  the  Holy  Mother 
keep  thee  from  ever  becoming  as  I  am 
now  !  "  She  patted  the  girl's  hand  lying  on 
her  knee.  Heloise  yearned  for  a  sympa- 
thetic touch.  "  What  was  in  my  heart  then 
is  now  dried  up  like  hay.  Hast  thou  a  lover, 
girl?" 

Madelon  paled.  "  I  know  love,  ma- 
dame." 

"  Ah,  child,  love  holy  and  sweet  ^     I  pray 


no  The  Devil's  Plough 

thou  hast  what  I  would  have  had  but  am 
denied.  Because  thou  know'st  my  husband 
shamefully,  I  speak.  Silence  is  no  longer 
necessary.  What  is  thy  love  like?  Tell 
me,  child." 

"  1  cannot,  madame  la  comtesse." 

"  But  surely  he  is  good  and  kind  ? " 
Heloise  looked  disturbed  by  the  contrary 
suspicion.  "  I  would  gladly  give  thee  a  dot 
if  thy  man  is  to  make  thee  happy." 

"  He  is  good  beyond  all  other  men,  and 
kind  as  the  apostles,  but  I  shall  never  wed, 
madame."  The  girl  swallowed  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Thou  art  not  promised  to  the  Church, 
child  ? " 

"  No,  madame  la  comtesse,  —  I  cannot 
talk,  —  I  must  go." 

"  But,  Madelon,  1  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
thee.  Stay  and  tell  me,  —  if  thou  wert  wed 
to  the  Comte  de  Luneville,  knowing  him  as 
thou  dost,  to  his  shame,  wouldst  thou  hold 
it  a  mortal  sin  to  love  another  ? " 

"  Ah,  madame,  I,  a  poor  ignorant  girl,  am 
not  fit  to  tell  you  your  duty.  Your  con- 
fessor knows  the  will  of  God  in  all  things." 


The  Devil's  Plough  iii 

"  My  confessor  ?  Father  Gaston  ?  Yes, 
he  may  know  the  will  of  God,  but  he  knows 
not  the  human  heart." 

"  Father  Gaston  !  He  is  your  confessor, 
madame  ?  Then,  I  pray  you,  by  the  Mother 
of  Christ,  to  do  his  bidding.  Whatever  he 
says  is  right.  I  would  obey  his  commands 
even  unto  —  "  The  girl  stopped  suddenly. 
Some  one  scratched  on  the  tapestry. 

A  gay  voice  was  heard  outside,  saying, 
"  Madame  la  comtesse  receives  no  one 
after  two  o'clock  ?  Well,  I  am  no  one  of 
consequence."  Ninon  de  L'Enclos  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  room,  her  head  half- 
way through  the  tapestry  hangings,  peeping 
into  the  bedchamber.  "  Chatillon }  No. 
Sevigne  ?  No.  Rabutin  ?  D'Enghien  ?  No. 
Then  it  must  be  the  devil,  —  he  keeps  so 
quiet." 

"  Enter.  I  welcome  you,  Mademoiselle 
de  L'Enclos,"  replied  the  countess,  assum- 
ing a  difficult  smile.  "You  adore  variety, 
—  perhaps  for  the  sake  of  it  you  may  be 
glad  to  meet  in  Paris  some  one  from  heaven 
rather  than  from  hell.  This  is  Madelon, 
my  flower-girl,  whom  I  found  outside  Notre 


112  The  Devil's  Plough 

Dame.  You  will  have  the  kindness  to  be 
seated,  mademoiselle." 

Ninon  looked  keenly  at  Madelon,  then 
laughed  carelessly.  "  Buying  virtue  from 
headquarters,  are  you !  Be  sure  there  is 
no  black  feather  in  her  wings.  But  have 
you  heard  who  fought  to-day,  countess  ? " 
Ninon  walked  up  to  the  mirror  and  rear- 
ranged her  ringlets  carefully. 

"  The  news  !  The  news  !  Do  not  keep 
me  waiting  !  "  Heloise  was  evidently  con- 
trolling her  nerves  in  speaking.  Turning 
to  Madelon,  she  bade,  "  Thou  must  go, 
little  one.  Come  soon  again."  Then  with 
great  impatience  repeated,  "  The  news ! 
Why  do  you  delay,  Ninon  ? " 

"  Cardinal  Richelieu  must  be  stamping 
with  rage  in  purgatory  to-day,"  replied  the 
latter.  "  His  edict  has  been  broken  four 
times,  and  incidentally  Madame  de  Sevigne 
has  become  a  widow." 

"  Sevigne  fought  ? "  It  was  a  terrible 
moment  to  Heloise.  Suspense  dilated  her 
eyes ;  one  hand  clinched  beneath  the  bed- 
covers. 

"  He   fought.     Du    Bosc   said   my   eyes 


The  Devil's  Plough  113 

were  too  light  a  blue  for  beauty,  and  so 
the  virtuous  madame  has  an  opportunity  to 
answer  letters  of  condolence." 

"  Ninon,  have  you  no  pity  ?  "  Heloise 
lay  back  against  the  bolster,  gray  with 
apprehension. 

"  Pity  for  the  wives  ?  No.  Virtue  with- 
out charm  is  a  hook  without  bait  —  let  them 
look  to  their  bait.  How  does  my  new  jus- 
teaucorps  please  you  ?  Madame  Belot  de- 
serves a  shrine  for  discovering  it."  She 
turned  about  with  a  teasing  laugh.  "  Oh, 
yes,  —  and  De  Bouteville.  Have  you  heard  ? 
He  also  has  killed  his  man  to-day." 

"  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  ?  "  The  count- 
ess held  her  breath. 

"  No,  —  not  Paul  to-day,  —  another. 
Paul  is  for  to-morrow.  De  Bouteville  de- 
clares that  unless  Paul  appears  in  Paris 
within  the  next  twenty-four  hours  he  will 
be  stabbed  at  sight  for  a  coward.  Where 
is  De  Chatillon  ?  " 

"Oh,  Ninon,  I  do  not  know."  The 
countess  barely  whispered. 

"It  would  be  well  for  him  to  appear 
to-night  at  Madame  de  Longueville's.     A 


114  The  Devil's  Plough 

gentleman  had  better  die  from  the  front 
than  from  behind."  The  countess  could 
not  answer. 

"  Countess,  I  have  come  to  say  farewell. 
I  am  leaving  Paris  indefinitely.  Paris  is  as 
tiresome  as  the  paradise  of  a  Jansenist. 
Voiture  went  to  sleep  at  the  play  last  night 
with  his  mouth  wide  open.  1  dropped  my 
zephyr  down  by  way  of  diversion,  —  there 
was  just  room  for  it.  His  sensations  on 
awakening  amused  me  for  five  minutes, — 
but  misery  !  it  was  not  lasting.  Fun  is  like 
passion ;  it  comes  as  a  lion  and  goes  as  a 
lamb.  'Tis  my  intention  to  entertain  Paris, 
if  it  will  not  entertain  me.  I  shall  disappear. 
Farewell.  You  must  not  look  thus  sallow 
on  my  return.  It  is  rumoured  that  De 
Luneville  is  pardoned.  The  cardinal  needs 
friends.  You  will  soon  wear  another  face  ; 
a  husband  in  the  Bastille  is  like  an  empty 
purse,  —  too  good  to  throw  away,  and  still 
not  of  enough  present  value  to  keep.  Fare- 
well, countess.  I  shall  see  you  on  my  re- 
turn .?  "  Ninon,  the  liveliest  woman  in  Paris, 
smiled  her  characteristic  smile  of  slightly 
cruel   amusement,  composed  of  pessimism 


The  Devil's  Plough  1 1 5 

and    dimples,    making    movements    toward 
departure  at  the  same  time. 

Left  alone,  Heloise  stared  at  the  wall, 
then,  after  five  minutes,  she  called,  "Jeanne, 
my  clothes.  Order  the  coach.  I  am  going 
out  immediately." 


Chapter  VII 

TWO  hours  passed.  Again  the  shadows 
of  the  Jesuit  college  lengthened.  In 
the  recreation-room  the  novices  were  min- 
gling during  this  one  hour  allotted  them 
daily  for  conversation.  The  talk  among  these 
prospective  priests  was  not  lively  in  a  worldly 
sense,  taking  the  form,  as  it  did,  of  critical 
observations  relating  to  their  spiritual  read- 
ing and  a  certain  "  Prelude  to  Meditations  " 
then  much  under  discussion.  The  pupils, 
on  the  other  hand,  showed  more  elastic 
spirits ;  their  thoughts  and  games  touched 
the  world  outside  conventual  walls,  into 
which  they  proposed  to  return  at  their  earli- 
est opportunity,  notwithstanding  their  real 
affection  entertained  toward  most  of  the 
Jesuit  instructors.  But  these  pupils'  recre- 
ation hour  was  spent  in  a  building  appor- 
tioned to  their  exclusive  use ;  hence  their 
lively  spirits  had  no  opportunity  to  interfere 

ii6 


The  Devil's  Plough  117 

with  the  grave  purpose  of  the  novices.  Sev- 
eral of  the  latter  walked  up  and  down  to- 
gether in  earnest  discussion  of  some  special 
point  of  doctrine.  One  of  these  youths  was 
talking  earnestly. 

"  I  insist  that  the  Jesuits  are  more  philo- 
sophical than  other  ascetics.  They  do  not 
strive  to  change  nature,  but  only  to  direct 
it  from  one  object  of  appetence  to  another; 
thus,  Ignatius  from  a  warrior  aspired  to  be 
a  saint.  A  man's  ruling  passion  is  never 
virtually  changed  by  the  Jesuits." 

"  1  grant  you  we  are  more  philosophical 
in  our  contemplation  of  all  moral  relations," 
replied  one  of  the  group.  "  We  proceed 
directly  toward  the  highest  end,  counting  all 
obstacles  as  impertinences  in  our  pathway ; 
but  I  cannot  admit  that  nature  is  always 
consulted  in  the  life  of  a  Jesuit  priest. 
Secretly,  I  confide  to  you  "  —  he  lowered 
his  voice  —  "I  would  have  been  an  actor, 
had  my  wishes  been  consulted ;  but  a  noble 
name  cannot  be  dragged  through  the  mud 
of  playhouses,  therefore  I  became  a  priest, 
being  a  younger  son  of  an  impoverished 
family." 


ii8  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Still,  I  can  see  that  your  argument  is 
not  sound,"  broke  in  a  third.  "Your  na- 
ture need  not  be  thwarted  as  a  Jesuit  priest. 
If  the  ability  is  yours,  why  not  become  a 
great  preacher  ? " 

The  others  appeared  impressed  with  the 
thought,  but  the  first  speaker  shook  his 
head  in  doubt.  "Be  careful  lest  you  may 
be  overheard,"  he  warned.  "  You  might  be 
called  upon  to  do  penance  for  the  thought. 
Is  it  your  belief  that  Father  Gaston  would 
have  excelled  as  an  actor  ?  " 

"  It  is,  indeed.  Father  Gaston  is  a  man 
of  deep  emotional,  dramatic  nature,  care- 
fully disciplined  in  holy  ways ;  but  had 
he  remained  in  the  world  he  might  have 
achieved  any  great  deed  calling  forth  un- 
usual powers  of  leadership  or  magnetic 
control  over  great  numbers  of  people.  Ob- 
serve how  the  people  of  the  city  worship 
him  now.  Note  how  at  one  word  of  rep- 
rimand from  him  we  stand  accused  to  the 
very  heart  of  our  conscience.  He  could 
have  been  an  actor,  a  soldier,  —  anything 
great  and  eloquent  of  strong  impulses 
shaped    by  a  dominating  will."     The  lad's 


The  Devil's  Plough  119 

eyes  sparkled  with  glowing  enthusiasm. 
Evidently  Father  Gaston  was  his  hero,  his 
model,  and  therein  lay  the  heavy  respon- 
sibility of  L'Artanges,  or  any  other  great 
personality  brought  immediately  within  reach 
of  youth's  imitative  tendency. 

"  But  even  the  holy  father  must  have  his 
moments  of  weakness,  his  temptations," 
the  enthusiast  continued.  "  I  feel  within 
myself  some  of  the  same  emotions,  and 
they  call  me  from  divine  grace.  Every 
day  I  stumble  over  my  own  humanity  in 
trying  to  seek  heaven."  The  lad  spoke 
from  a  contrite  heart. 

"  Ah,  but  in  time  you  —  we  all  —  will 
gain  tact,  discretion,  and  humility,  Raoul. 
The  rule  of  obedience,  faithfully  observed, 
leads  a  human  soul  into  complete  mastery 
of  the  body." 

"But  I  am  not  entirely  convinced  of  that. 
I  have  seen  Father  Gaston's  face  in  repose, 
when  my  own  human  weaknesses  seemed  to 
steal  about  his  mouth  and  linger  there  some- 
what concealed.  How  can  a  man  conscien- 
tiously take  a  vow  to  remain  poor,  and  still 
possess  all   that  he  could   rationally  desire 


I20  The  Devil's  Plough 

of  the  world's  comforts  ?  The  brothers 
live  much  more  luxuriously  than  we  did 
at  home  on  my  father's  estate."  He  was 
quickly  warned  to  silence. 

A  Jesuit  brother  approached  with  an  order 
for  outdoor  occupation.  "  Deo  gratias,"  he 
said  to  each  one  in  passing.  "  Deo  gratias," 
each  one  replied.  They  filed  out  of  the 
room  two  abreast,  according  to  the  Jesuit 
policy,  whether  it  concerned  young  novices 
in  a  brotherhood,  or  missionaries  sent  to 
far  distant  lands  of  India  or  Canada. 

Ignatius  studied  closely  the  reasonable- 
ness of  nature  in  preparing  the  doctrines 
of  his  Order.  A  pair  will  succeed  where 
one  must  fail,  because  each,  in  supplement- 
ing the  other,  supplies  the  qualities  neces- 
sary to  the  creation  of  a  perfect  human 
instrument. 

The  garden  of  the  college  lay  at  the 
rear  of  the  three  buildings  comprising  the 
institution.  Father  Gaston's  private  sleep- 
ing-apartment and  study  overlooked  this 
extensive  vegetable  garden  running  a  con- 
siderable distance  down  toward  the  river. 
The   flower   beds    lay  directly  beneath    his 


The  Devil's  Plough  121 

windows.  When  the  novices  came  out  into 
the  mild  air,  involuntarily  filling  their  lungs 
freely,  Father  Gaston  appeared  to  them 
standing  alone  under  the  tree  that  sheltered 
the  rose  garden,  from  whence  came  a  wel- 
come fragrance.  Spring  was  telling  her 
story  to  the  priest  in  a  sonnet  of  nature's 
making ;  he  stood  there  apparently  listening 
to  a  flower,  and  on  his  face  there  rested  a 
tender  smile.  He  turned  at  sight  of  the 
advancing  youths,  and,  as  they  approached 
the  path  leading  past  the  flowers  along  into 
the  vegetable  gardens,  he  returned  their 
Deo  gratias  with  another,  of  grave  but 
kindly  cadence,  expressing  human  interest 
in  their  welfare. 

Silently  the  novices  took  up  their  hoes ; 
silently  they  hoed  the  garden  under  the 
direction  of  Brother  Francis.  No  word 
was  spoken  among  them,  as  was  the  rule 
of  the  Order.  Father  Gaston  meditatively 
watched  their  work  proceed,  then  turned 
and  slowly  strolled  about  the  garden.  A 
close  worldly  observer  would  at  that  mo- 
ment have  described  him  to  be  a  restless 
man,  consumed  with  impatience  or  ungrati- 


122  The  Devil's  Plough 

fied  desire ;  the  novices  looked  upon  him 
in  the  light  of  their  superior,  absorbed 
in  spiritual  meditations.  Both  conclusions 
would  have  bordered  upon  fact.  Gaston 
L'Artanges  was  a  human  being  possessed 
of  uncommon  spiritual  tendencies  accen- 
tuated by  early  discipline,  but  his  body 
remained  quick,  his  blood  was  not  yet 
holy  water;  indeed,  he  was  still  as  nature 
made  him  with  the  rest  of  mankind,  not- 
withstanding his  strenuous  endeavours  to 
become  what  the  Church  considered  it  best 
for  him  to  be,  and  that  day  his  body  evinced 
the  agitation  tearing  his  mind. 

Back  and  forth  he  walked,  his  habit  sway- 
ing somewhat  in  the  breeze,  his  long  hat 
held  under  one  arm.  Once  he  paused  be- 
side the  novice  Raoul,  between  whom  and 
the  rector  there  had  ever  existed  some  deep 
understanding. 

"  Lad,  thou  art  happy  in  the  sunshine  ?  " 
Father  Gaston  asked,  a  restless  sadness 
sounding  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  holy  father." 

"  The  sun  is  the  smile  of  God  —  of  Jesus. 
*  He  that  taketh  not  his  cross  and  folio weth 


The  Devil's  Plough  123 

after  me  is  not  worthy  of  me.'  Be  faithful 
unto  death,  lad.     Deo  gratias." 

"  Deo  gratias,"  the  young  man  replied, 
with  pity  for  them  both  in  his  tone. 

L'Artanges,  the  great  preacher,  passed 
on,  but  the  novice  forgot  his  work  in  gaz- 
ing after  him,  magnetised.  Directly  the 
lad's  face  took  on  a  look  of  apprehension. 
"  Boutet ! "  he  said,  quickly,  to  his  fellow 
worker,  "  look  at  Father  Gaston.  What  is 
happening  ?  "  For  this  grave  disobedience 
he  did  penance  that  night  after  vespers ; 
but  no  penance  could  have  stood  in  the 
way  of  the  relief  speech  gave  him  at  that 
moment. 

Father  Gaston  stood  once  more  near  by 
the  tree  in  the  rose  garden.  His  body  was 
rigid,  his  eyes  dilated,  his  hat  fallen  to  the 
ground.  One  long  arm  pointed  its  fore- 
finger in  horror  at  the  trunk  of  the  tree. 
The  priest's  lips  moved,  but  he  uttered  no 
words  until,  as  the  arm  fell  to  his  side, 
Raoul,  even  at  that  distance,  heard  him  say, 
"  Thou  hast  come  and  gone  again,  Satan. 
May  God  have  pity  on  my  soul."  He 
sank   down   upon   a   bench    farther    along. 


124  The  Devil's  Plough 

There  he  sat,  facing  the  west,  in  the  full 
glow  of  the  crimson  sunset,  but  he  knew  it 
not ;  his  spirit  groped  in  the  darkness. 

When  the  novices  returned  to  the  house 
for  their  evening  meal,  the  priest  arose, 
answered  their  Deo  gratias  in  his  customary 
tone  of  composure,  then  followed  them  into 
the  refectory,  separated  from  his  own  apart- 
ment by  a  small  square  hall,  or  antecham- 
ber. There  he  glanced  at  the  great  clock  in 
the  corner,  paused  to  stroke  Thomas,  the 
cat,  snoozing  before  the  fireplace,  then  look- 
ing about  for  Pierre  and  discovering  him 
among  the  serving  lay  brothers,  he  com- 
manded, "  Send  the  barber  to  me  at  once, 
Pierre,  I  must  be  shaved  before  vespers." 

"  Certainly,  holy  father.  Are  you  not 
feeling  well  this  evening.  Father  Gaston  ? " 
Pierre  asked,  with  some  concern. 

"  Why  dost  thou  ask  that,  man  ?  Doth 
my  body  take  on  the  colour  of  my  soul  ?  " 
Changing  his  manner  quickly,  he  continued, 
"  And  how  is  the  little  daughter,  Pierre  ? 
How  is  the  flower  garden  across  the  river .? 
How  are  the  fish  ?  " 

"  Dear  to   me  as  ever,  holy  father ;  but 


The  Devil's  Plough  125 

flowers,  fishes,  and  maidens  have  their 
seasons,  like  the  year.  The  sun  goes  under 
the  clouds  sometimes."  Pierre  did  not  look 
cheerful. 

"  Something  has  happened  ?  Tell  me  to- 
morrow ;  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  L'Artanges 
replied,  sympathetically. 

"  And,  Father  Gaston,  I  left  on  your 
table  some  spring  flowers,  —  little  blossoms 
left  by  Madelon  for  you,  if  you  think  her 
not  too  forward." 

"  That  was  kind,  Pierre.  The  flowers 
will  be  delicate  and  sweet  from  Madelon ; 
that  I  know.  She  is  a  good  girl.  I  thank 
thee.  Pierre,  is  the  clock  with  the  sun  to- 
day ^  The  light  seems  to  have  gone  early. 
Everything  appears  dim  to  my  eyes."  He 
stumbled  over  a  chair  in  the  small  dark  hall, 
but  Pierre  caught  his  arm. 

"  I  was  not  wrong,  then,  when  I  said  the 
holy  father  was  unwell  ? "  Pierre  insisted, 
anxiously. 

"  'Tis  but  the  night  approaching,  good 
fellow.  Send  me  the  barber.  My  chin  is 
rough.  I  soon  might  well  have  a  beard  fit 
for  the  gallant  world." 


126  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Father  Gaston,"  said  Pierre,  "  one  word. 
If  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  comes  again 
through  the  garden  gate,  is  he  to  be  ad- 
mitted ?  His  coming  begins  to  oil  the 
tongues  of  the  faculty.  They  are  curious. 
But  he  hath  not  been  here  in  many  days. 
Perhaps  he  hath  gone  away  ?  " 

"  Admit  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  whenever 
he  comes,  —  either  by  the  garden  gate  or  by 
the  front  portal,"  replied  the  priest,  sternly. 

"  But  if  news  of  it  should  reach  Rome  ? 
Father,  you  know  I  love  you  next  to 
Madelon." 

"  Then  if  thou  lov'st  me,  hold  thy  tongue 
in  custody  and  keep  watch.     Deo  gratias." 

"  Deo  gratias,"  replied  Pierre,  moving  off 
with  the  gliding  step  of  the  Order. 

There  seemed  to  come  to  L'Artanges 
some  strong  resolution ;  his  step  grew 
firmer ;  he  moved  along  hurriedly,  saying 
once,  half  aloud,  "  Every  minute  hath  the 
length  of  an  hour,  but  Satan  lends  his 
speed."  Once  in  his  bedchamber  the  man's 
new-found  strength  deserted  him.  Falling 
on  his  knees  beside  the  narrow  bed,  his  face 
dropped  forward ;  he  remained  there  motion- 


The  Devil's  Plough  127 

less  in  the  faded  light,  heeding  not  the 
nightingale  singing  amid  the  branches  of  the 
tree  in  the  rose  garden,  nor  the  new  moon 
hanging  a  silver  scythe  far  above  the  fields 
of  men. 


Chapter  VIII 

THE  Rue  Vieux  Colombier  presented  a 
jovial  appearance  by  the  time  the  sun 
had  fairly  set,  twilight  arriving  in  springtime 
as  the  signal  for  an  uprising  of  the  gay  world 
of  Paris.  The  tavern  of  La  Carotte  Rouge, 
situated  at  a  corner  of  Rue  Vieux  Colombier, 
not  far  from  Pont  Notre  Dame,  attracted 
particularly  poets  and  savants,  owing  to  some 
unaccountable  literary  traditions  clustering 
about  the  jolly  little  eating-house,  where 
Jean  Bloutet  and  his  lively  daughter  Rosa 
served  incomparable  suppers  at  a  price  be- 
fitting narrow  purses  and  wide  stomachs. 
There  a  man  could  sing  the  gayest  tune  he 
pleased  uncensured ;  he  might  even  impro- 
vise a  verse  standing  on  his  head,  if  so 
moved  by  inspiration,  and  Rosa  would, 
under  those  circumstances,  merely  pretend 
a  becoming  anger,  calling  out  for  help  to 
her  father,  serving  at  the  other  end  of  the 

128 


The  Devil's  Plough  129 

room  a  special  wine,  pressed  from  the  grapes 
of  his  own  grandfather's  vineyard,  and  de- 
scended to  Jean  directly,  —  a  precious  inher- 
itance. "  Little  father,"  Rosa  would  cry, 
"  the  beasts  are  out.  Set  the  dogs  on 
them  !  " 

Jean  gave  small  heed  to  merely  jovial 
indiscretions,  but  there  was  a  limit  beyond 
which  his  faith  permitted  no  one  to  pass. 
A  man  could  become  as  childishly  drunk  as 
he  pleased  at  La  Carotte  Rouge,  but  no 
man  could  be  brutally  drunk  and  remain 
so  in  the  presence  of  Rosa.  "  The  street, 
monsieur,  is  a  pigpen.  It  is  yours,"  Jean 
would  say,  pointing  warningly  toward  the 
door.  Then  even  the  gallants,  who  had 
lately  scented  grandfather's  vintage  at  La 
Carotte  Rouge,  and  sniffed  the  air  with  in- 
quiring interest  until  Jean  became  alarmed 
lest  the  valuable  inheritance  be  exhausted 
during  his  lifetime,  paid  some  respect  to 
decency,  owing  to  personal  alarm  lest  their 
palates  go  begging  for  Jean's  incomparable 
wine. 

Under  the  sign  of  La  Carotte  Rouge  an 
oil-lamp  sputtered.     Its  light  carried  but  a 


I  JO  The  Devil's  Plough 

short  distance  along  the  street ;  indeed,  the 
rays  scarcely  reached  those  of  David  Blanc's 
lamp,  under  the  sign  of  his  bakeshop  oppo- 
site, nor  of  those  flickering  farther  along, 
at  inconvenient  distances  apart,  arranged  on 
pulleys  carried  from  one  side  of  the  narrow 
street  to  the  other.  But  the  lights  Jean  set 
in  his  tavern  window,  by  way  of  advertise- 
ment, made  his  neighbourhood  a  particularly 
bright  spot,  and  from  the  seats  at  tables 
placed  close  beside  the  window  passers-by 
could  be  plainly  distinguished. 

That  same  evening,  at  one  of  those  tables 
in  the  full  light,  sat  a  company  of  gallants, 
including  Chevalier  de  Bouteville,  Chevalier 
de  Trouville,  Monsieur  du  Brion,  and 
Monsieur  Bussy  de  Rabutin,  arrayed  in 
outdoor  garments.  De  Bouteville  was  talk- 
ing vehemently  in  the  unsteady  tones  of  a 
man  whose  wits,  having  first  been  stimulated 
to  unusual  energy,  are  now  feeling  a  doubt 
of  themselves  not  to  be  pleasantly  enter- 
tained by  the  possessor.  In  one  hand  he 
held  his  plumed  hat,  in  the  other  a  brim- 
ming glass  of  wine.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  half 
chanted,  "  drink  to  my  hat,  my  noble  hat ; 


The  Devil's  Plough  131 

lately  the  ornament  of  a  worthy  head,  but 
now  needs  must  go  to  a  coward.  I  have 
the  honour  to  proclaim  that,  if  De  Chatillon 
appeareth  not  within  the  hour,  I  take  the 
liberty  to  use  my  stroke  from  behind.  To 
my  hat ! " 

They  drank  to  the  hat.  Then  De  Ra- 
butin  asked,  in  the  tone  of  courtesy  used 
prudently  by  all  gentlemen  toward  the  most 
skilful  duellist  in  France,  —  even  these,  his 
boon  companions,  were  cautious  of  their 
phrase  -  making  in  his  presence,  —  "  But, 
may  I  take  the  liberty  to  inquire,  monsieur 
le  chevalier,  what  may  the  hat  have  to  do 
with  cowards  ?  It  has  ornamented  the  head 
of  a  De  Bouteville.  That  is  enough.  Its 
reputation  is  established." 

De  Bouteville  bowed  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  compliment.  "  The  connection  is 
not  so  obscure  as  it  may  seem,  monsieur." 
He  twirled  his  hat  on  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. "  When  in  England  last,  I  observed 
a  custom  —  More  wine,  Rosa,  thou  Flower 
of  the  Vineyard  !  —  a  custom,  I  was  saying, 
greatly  to  the  point.  The  point,  gentlemen  ! 
Ha,  ha!     That  was  not  bad.     Eh,   Rosa."* 


132  The  Devil's  Plough 

The  custom  turns  on  the  point  of  my  sword, 
which  in  its  turn  turns  on  a  coward.  Saint- 
Evremond  or  Charlevalle  would  turn  a  better 
phrase,  —  hein,  Rosa  ?  " 

Rosa  stood  modestly  beside  him,  pouring 
their  wine  from  a  flagon.  Without  raising 
her  eyes  she  replied,  "  Yours  is  a  noble  wit, 
monsieur." 

"  Thine  is  a  clever  tongue,  girl,  and  a 
rosy  cheek.  Thy  father  shouldst  name  his 
tavern  La  Rosa  Rouge.  The  name  would 
attract  like  flies  to  the  sweets." 

"You  do  me  great  honour,  monsieur," 
replied  the  girl,  moving  quickly  away. 

"  But  to  the  point,  De  Bouteville.  Thou 
wanderest  amid  sweet  clover,"  recalled  Du 
Brion,  tipping  his  chair  back  against  the 
wall,  crossing  one  leg  high  over  the  other, 
and  sipping  his  wine  with  a  smack  of  his 
lips.  "  Observe  my  resemblance  to  a  poet 
at  this  moment,"  he  went  on.  "  'Tis  a  fa- 
vourite attitude  of  the  amiable  Voiture, 
here  beneath  Jean's  print  of  the  Red 
Cardinal." 

"  Thou  wear'st  the  look  of  a  damsel  as 
nearly  as  that  of  a  poet,  Du  Brion,"  replied 


The  Devil's  Plough  133 

De  Trouville,  balancing  the  hilt  of  his 
sword  in  one  palm.  "  The  Red  Cardinal 
looks  down  upon  thee.  Dost  thou  not  feel 
his  eyes  ? " 

"  Not  I.  Their  power  hath  gone  with 
the  soul  of  the  man.  But  thy  point,  De 
Bouteville.  It  will  wear  blunt  with  waiting. 
What  was  the  custom  thou  adopted  from 
thine  enemy  England  ?  " 

"  'Tis  but  an  odd  form  of  challenge.  If 
the  offender  be  not  at  home  when  called 
upon,  it  is  to  leave  the  challenger's  hat  or- 
namented with  an  important  paper  fastened 
to  the  plume,  —  an  important  paper,  Du 
Brion,  —  a  paper  as  important  as  the  point 
of  my  sword.  —  Rosa,  here  !  Sweetness  ! 
The  wine  of  thy  grandfather  must  not  go 
to  waste." 

De  Bouteville  dropped  several  coins  into 
his  glove,  then  caught  one  of  the  girl's 
hands,  over  which  he  fitted  his  glove  loosely, 
saying,  with  a  pat  on  the  glove,  "  A  souve- 
nir, Rosa,  of  noble  wit." 

"You  do  me  great  honour,  monsieur  le 
chevalier."  Rosa  made  a  curtsey,  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  at  her  father,  whose  back 


134  The  Devil's  Plough 

was  turned,  then  bent  lightly,  swiftly,  toward 
De  Bouteville's  kiss  before  hurrying  away, 
flagon  in  hand. 

"The  new  vintage  is  sometimes  better 
than  the  old,  hein,  De  Bouteville  ? "  re- 
marked De  Rabutin,  who  sat  incidentally 
arranging  his  locks  before  a  pocket-mirror. 
"  But  we  await  the  story  of  the  hat.  The 
end  must  be  near." 

"  On  my  honour,  monsieur,  as  a  gentle- 
man of  France,  'tis  not  far  distant.  De 
Chatillon  is  a  rat  in  a  hole,  who  runs  out  by 
night  for  a  morsel  of  cheese,  and  back  again 
before  the  cat  can  smell  him.  Comtesse  de 
Luneville  is  the  cheese,  —  a  pretty  morsel. 
But  a  day  will  come  when  the  cat  will  find 
the  hole,  then  —  " 

Du  Brion  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  My  God !  De  Bouteville,  thou  hast  De 
Chatillon  on  thy  very  stomach,  —  his  boots 
dangling  out  thy  mouth.  Digest  him,  man, 
digest  him,  else  he  may  cause  thee  and  thy 
friends  sleepless  nights.  Look  out  of  the 
window  !  How  is  that  for  a  charming  dam- 
sel, with  her  visor  down .?  "  De  Bouteville 
sitting  back  to  the  window,  got  up,  yawned, 


The  Devil's  Plough  135 

then  turned  about  and  sat  straddling  his 
chair  for  a  better  look. 

"  'Tis  not  the  leg  of  a  boy  I  see,"  said 
De  Rabutin,  leaning  forward,  as  did  they  all 
when  the  page  referred  to  arrived  under  the 
baker's  light  opposite.  "  The  mask  but 
whets  one's  appetite  for  beauty.  That  is  a 
page  I'd  willingly  attach  to  my  service, 
hein,  De  Bouteville  ^  Observe  her  in  the 
broad  light." 

"  Charming  !  "  exclaimed  De  Bouteville. 
"  And  alone !  Canst  thou  see  her  people 
following,  De  Trouville  ?  No  ?  Ah,  if  I 
were  not  so  comfortable  !  " 

"  Three  Jesuits  follow  close  behind  her. 
De  Rabutin,  'tis  strange  that  in  France  a 
woman  and  a  Jesuit  follow  each  other  as 
closely  as  the  stars  the  moon.'* 

"  Thy  figure  mounts  to  heaven,  De  Trou- 
ville ;  so  do  the  women  on  a  ladder  of 
priests."  De  Rabutin  smiled,  and  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"  There  goes  a  villain  leading  an  ape," 
announced  De  Bouteville,  unsteadily  tilting 
his  chair  toward  the  window. 

"  But    recently    arrived    from     southern 


136  The  Devil's  Plough 

waters,"  said  Du  Brion,  leaning  over  De 
Bouteville's  shoulder  for  a  better  look. 
"The  ape  bears  a  family  resemblance  to 
certain  Parisians ;  think'st  thou  not  so, 
Henri  ? " 

De  Bouteville  looked  up  and  laughed 
foolishly,  replying,  as  he  turned  his  gaze 
again  toward  the  street,  "  To  me  the  two 
resemble  greatly  monsieur  le  diable  leading 
De  Chatillon  by  the  string."  He  drowsily 
chuckled  over  his  joke ;  the  room  was  grow- 
ing warm,  and  Rosa  had  not  been  left  in 
idleness  that  evening. 

De  Rabutin  arose  and  moved  over  to  a 
position  nearer  the  window,  where  the  other 
guests,  coming  and  going,  almost  brushed 
his  hanging  sword  in  passing/ so  small  was 
the  room.  "  Have  a  care  !  "  he  said,  laying 
a  hand  on  De  Bouteville's  chair,  and  good- 
humouredly  picking  up  that  gentleman's 
cloak,  fallen  to  the  floor.  "  Have  a  care. 
Thou  wouldst  appear  to  lean  toward  hell,  if 
that's  the  devil  passing,  monsieur.  Pretty 
Rosa  will  pick  thee  up  in  pieces,  also  the 
window  glass,  if  thou  tippest  an  inch  farther. 
The  devil  might  tie  thee  to  his   string  be- 


The  Devil's  Plough  137 

hind  De  Chatillon.  Doth  the  thought 
please  thee  ?  " 

"  God  would  look  twice  before  he  damned 
a  De  Bouteville,"  repHed  the  duellist,  warmly. 

"  There  are  without  doubt  ways  of  ar- 
ranging these  matters  with  Heaven."  De 
Rabutin  never  failed  in  good  humour. 
He  continued,  "  There  goes  the  surgeon 
De  Lorine,  on  his  mule,  dressed  in  his 
plague  clothes.  That  morocco  leather  coat 
will  shortly  be  the  fashion,  if  he  catcheth 
not  the  disease." 

"  His  spectacles  are  more  useful  than 
becoming,"  observed  Du  Brion.  "  He  car- 
ries the  smell  of  garlic,  rue,  and  incense  with 
him,  —  an  unrighteous  ragout.  The  people 
appear  restless  to-night.  Here  come  some 
market  folks.  Strange,  monsieur  le  diable 
passed  them  by." 

"  They  must  be  cooking  some  special  dish 
for  the  cardinal."  De  Bouteville  roused 
himself  to  speak.  "  The  Jesuit  L'Artanges 
kicked  over  their  table  the  other  day.  If  I 
ever  loved  a  Jesuit,  'tis  he.  The  man  hath 
a  soldier  in  him." 

A  noisy  crowd  of  excited  market  people 


138  The  Devil's  Plough 

passed,  then  a  coach  rattled  along,  followed 
by  several  chairs  charmingly  occupied. 

"  Who  comes  there,  De  Bouteville  ?  " 
suddenly  exclaimed  Du  Brion,  laying  a  hand 
on  his  sword. 

"  The  Due  de  Longueville's  coach. 
Monsieur  le  due  will,  as  is  customary,  be 
late  in  arriving  for  madame  his  wife's  fete. 
We  also,  gentlemen.  How  goes  the  time, 
De  Rabutin?" 

The  latter  looked  at  his  watch,  exclaim- 
ing, "  Late  indeed  !  My  hairdresser's  price 
will  be  doubled  for  his  time  wasted.  We 
must  depart." 

"  One  moment,"  whispered  Du  Brion, 
loudly.  "  I  see  some  one  in  the  shadow,  — 
there,  beyond  the  baker's  light.  Who  is 
that?  Alone  —  on  foot  —  pausing  to  brush 
mud  from  off  his  collar.  The  duke's  coach 
splashed  him.  He  wraps  his  cloak  and 
proceeds.  De  Bouteville,  wake  up  !  Dost 
thou  not  smell  a  rat  ?  " 

"  De   Chatillon  !  "  exclaimed  the   others. 

"  The  cat  is  aWake  !  "  said  De  Bouteville, 
jumping  to  his  feet  and  catching  up  both 
cloak  and  hat.     Du  Brion,  De  Bouteville's 


The  Devil's  Plough  139 

friend  of  long  standing,  looked  concerned. 
"  Thou  wilt  give  him  a  chance  of  a  fair 
fight,  Henri?" 

"  Certainly,  monsieur,  —  if  he  chooseth  to 
take  it ;  otherwise  —  "  De  Bouteville  looked 
significant  and  hurried  out  of  the  tavern. 
De  Rabutin  called  after  him,  "  May  luck 
fall  with  thy  sword !  I've  an  appointment 
with  the  hairdresser,  otherwise  I'd  attend 
thee."  The  others  closely  and  eagerly 
followed  De  Bouteville,  who,  steadied  by 
the  sudden  excitement,  now  appeared  on 
the  steps  of  the  wine-shop,  in  the  full 
light. 

De  Chatillon,  resuming  his  way,  came 
at  the  very  moment  under  the  illuminated 
sign  of  the  bakeshop.  He  looked  across 
directly  into  the  eyes  of  his  challenger. 
"  Coward ! "  called  out  De  Bouteville. 
"  Must  a  gentleman  run  you  like  a  rat 
to  its  hole  for  satisfaction  ?  Come  out !  " 
De  Chatillon  paused,  hesitated  as  if  about 
to  reply,  then,  without  a  word,  turned  back 
into  the  shadow  from  whence  he  came. 

"  Coward  !  "  called  the  three  gentlemen 
after  him.     "A  gentleman  of  France  run 


140  The  Devil's  Plough 

from  a  challenge  !  After  him  !  After  him  ! 
With  a  short  sword ! "  With  De  Boute- 
ville  in  the  lead,  the  three  gallants  chased 
the  rapidly  disappearing  figure  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Pont  Notre  Dame.  De  Cha- 
tillon  kept  so  successfully  in  the  shadow 
of  the  streets  that  nothing  could  be  seen 
of  him  except  during  those  moments  when 
he  perforce  came  out  into  the  light  of  a 
shop.  The  young  moon  was  fast  setting ; 
it  gave  no  light.  Across  the  bridge  of 
Notre  Dame  they  followed  him,  overtaking 
the  man  with  the  ape,  and  the  priests,  but 
not  the  woman  disguised  as  a  page. 

"  Ten  louis  for  a  horse  ! "  shouted  De 
Bouteville ;  but  no  animal  larger  than  the 
ape  and  three  barking  dogs  was  forthcom- 
ing. "  He  must  have  jumped  into  a  coach. 
We  are  losing  him." 

"  No,  there  he  is,  —  turning  from  the 
bridge  into  Rue  de  la   Lanterne." 

"  His  residence  is  not  on  the  island. 
Where  is  he  leading  us  ? " 

"It  may  be  a  trap  !  " 

"  Are  we  cowards,  too,  gentlemen  ?  'Tis 
bad  enough  for  a  gentleman  to  run  after  a 


The  Devil's  Plough  141 

coward ;  'tis  worse  to  run  away  from  one." 
De  Bouteville  was  growing  surly. 

Past  St.  Denis  de  la  Chartre  and  La 
Madeleine,  they  hurried  into  Rue  Notre 
Dame,  every  few  moments  catching  a  tan- 
talising glimpse  of  their  game  ahead,  but 
at  the  Hotel  Dieu  they  lost  sight  of  him 
entirely.  Pausing  to  take  counsel  with  his 
friends,  De  Bouteville  insisted  upon  turn- 
ing to  the  left,  past  the  cathedral. 

"  He's  a  brother  to  the  Jesuit,  L'Ar- 
tanges.  'Tis  in  the  cloisters  or  at  the 
college  he  seeks  refuge.     Proceed." 

"  My  faith !  that  hath  some  reason  in 
its  sound,  but  a  Jesuit  is  dead  to  his  rela- 
tives," returned  De  Trouville. 

"  Your  mind  dwells  in  past  ages,  monsieur. 
A  Jesuit  in  our  day  enjoys  exactly  whatever 
redounds  to  the  greater  glory  of  God,  —  pro- 
vided it  pleaseth  the  Jesuit  first.  To  the  left ! 
I  see  him!  There,  —  under  the  cathedral 
light !  May  his  soul  find  no  rest  for  this  run 
he  gives  us.  My  wind  is  dying  out."  Du 
Brion  stooped  down  and  felt  of  one  foot. 
"If  it's  blistered,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I'll  have 
a  thrust  at  you  myself,  De  Chatillon." 


142  •     The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Come  on,  gentlemen,"  cried  De  Boute- 
ville.  "  I  hear  his  steps.  We're  on  the 
very  heels  of  his  boots.  Coward !  Fight 
fair,  or  I'll  run  you  through." 

De  Chatillon's  deep  breathing  could  be 
distinctly  heard.  De  Bouteville  caught  an 
end  of  a  floating  cloak,  supporting  himself 
by  the  aid  of  a  stone  wall  running  along 
at  one  side  of  the  street.  At  that  moment 
the  click  of  the  gate  was  heard.  De  Boute- 
ville felt  the  cloak  give  entirely  into  his 
hands,  but  the  wearer  had  disappeared 
within  the  gate. 

"  The  rat  hath  run  between  the  walls ! 
May  Satan  pursue  him  !  Follow  me,  gentle- 
men," De  Bouteville  called,  in  impotent  rage. 

"  Henri,  it  is  consecrated  ground.  The 
wall  seems  to  me  to  belong  to  the  cloisters." 
Du  Brion  attempted  to  hold  him  back. 

"  On !  On,  I  say !  We'd  follow  him  to 
the  footstool  of  St.  Peter.  The  rat!"  De 
Bouteville  forced  open  the  narrow,  seques- 
tered gate,  and  bounded  through,  followed 
reluctantly  by  De  Trouville  and  Du  Brion, 
who  crossed  themselves  piously. 


Chapter  IX 

SUPPER  in  a  Jesuit  college  was  a  silent 
meal,  conversation  among  the  novices 
being  entirely  prohibited,  but  each  day  one 
from  their  number  was  appointed  by  the 
rector  to  read  aloud  during  the  progress  of 
mastication,  according  to  the  maxim  of  St. 
Ignatius,  "  Whilst  the  body  is  refitted,  the 
soul,  too,  may  have  her  food." 

An  hour  after  Father  Gaston  knelt  pray- 
erfully beside  his  bed,  he  issued  forth,  ap- 
parently composed,  but  his  eyes  were  still 
restless.  The  reader  had  given  out  the 
notice  of  the  saint  for  the  day,  and  was  read- 
ing, monotonously :  "  A  certain  holy  man 
was  ordered  by  his  superior  to  water  a  dry 
stick  set  upright  in  the  ground.  He  obeyed 
without  a  question,  or  a  thought  of  a  ques- 
tion,—  and  behold,  the  stick  put  forth 
branches  and  grew  a  beautiful  tree."  Father 
Gaston  entered  the  refectory  at  the  begin- 
143 


144  The  Devil's  Plough 

ning  of  the  parable.  He  stood  motionless 
just  inside  the  door,  listening.  His  face 
was  flushed,  and  at  the  last  words  he  stepped 
quickly  forward  to  the  head  of  the  table, 
where  he  broke  into  passionate  speech. 

"  Young  men,  if,  in  the  natural  course  of 
life  and  death,  you  and  I  never  again  enter 
into  spiritual  communion,  remember  these 
words,  —  a  man  receives  his  own  soul  direct 
from  God,  a  divine  gift,  as  are  the  flowers 
that  move  us  to  purest  thoughts,  and  noble 
music  filling  all  earth  with  the  glow  of  para- 
dise for  the  soul  that  listens  to  love  as  the 
highest  of  virtues.  Live,  young  men,  so 
that  when  this  life  is  done  thou  mayst  say 
to  thine  own  heart,  *  I  can  face  God  with  a 
direct  eye ; '  the  censure  of  men  bears  no 
weight  in  eternity.  Seek  God  within  thy- 
self and  he  is  ever  near  thee."  Father  Gas- 
ton faltered,  swallowed  hard  several  times, 
and  seemed  about  to  continue,  but  instead 
turned  abruptly  away,  muttering,  "  Deo 
gratias,"  and  went  hurriedly  out  of  the 
room. 

The  young  men  exchanged  glances  of 
wonder   and    admiration,  —  they    were    not 


The  Devil's  Plough  145 

allowed  to  speak.  Brother  Thomas,  super- 
visor of  the  meal,  looked  visibly  shocked, 
but,  recovering  himself,  commanded,  "  Pro- 
ceed with  thy  reading,  Rene." 

The  great  clock  in  the  corner  ticked  away 
the  seconds  ;  knives  clattered,  and  the  read- 
ing continued  until  the  order  was  given  for 
retirement  into  chapel,  where  vespers  were 
held.  Deliberately  the  novices  arose  from 
their  long,  meagrely  appointed  and  provis- 
ioned table.  They  moved  in  twos  slowly 
across  the  great  room  toward  steps  at  the 
back,  mounting  to  their  small  chapel,  from 
whence  came  the  odour  of  incense  and  the 
sound  of  the  organist  playing  a  cathedral 
prelude  of  the  Italian  school. 

After  service  there  followed  the  daily 
penance,  when  each  novice  confessed  his 
faults  committed  during  the  day.  One  of 
the  brothers  reluctantly  substituted  for  the 
rector  in  his  unusual  absence.  Penance  was 
delivered  at  the  chapel  door  leading  down 
into  the  refectory.  The  last  novice  to  con- 
fess was  Raoul,  who,  for  the  disobedience  of 
having  spoken  in  his  dismay  at  sight  of 
Father  Gaston  in  the  garden,  was  penanced 


146  The  Devil's  Plough 

to  prostrate  himself  at  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  where,  lying  prone,  he  cried  to  each 
of  his  comrades,  ordered  to  step  over  him 
in  passing  back  into  the  refectory  from  the 
chapel,  "  Pray  for  me,  brother." 

When  the  last  two  novices,  followed  by  a 
priest  bearing  a  burning  taper  held  in  front 
of  an  upraised  cross,  had  passed  on  through 
the  refectory  out  into  corridors  leading 
toward  dormitories  at  the  other  side  of  the 
college,  the  clock,  the  cat,  and  silence  held 
undisturbed  communion  for  some  little  time. 

At  the  moment  the  clock  struck  nine 
Brother  Francis  and  Brother  Thomas  en- 
tered the  refectory  together.  Said  the  for- 
mer, "  Hear'st  thou  the  hour  striking,  and 
Father  Gaston  not  yet  returned  ?  " 

"  *Tis  strange,  brother,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Life  hath  more  mysteries  than  a  priest  can 
read.  The  holy  father  was  wont  to  be  regu- 
lar with  the  clock  until  of  late.  'Tis  possi- 
ble Pierre  hath  news  of  his  whereabouts. 
Pierre  !  Pierre  !  " 

Brother  Francis  also  called,  "  Pierre," 
gently,  in  the  Jesuit  voice,  following  his 
companion    through   the    door   at  the  left. 


The  Devil's  Plough  147 

leading  into  Father  Gaston's  antechamber, 
where  it  was  the  rector's  habit  to  attend  all 
business  pertaining  to  supervision  of  the  col- 
lege. The  cat,  aroused  by  voices,  joined 
the  procession,  which,  at  the  objective  point, 
the  door,  was  confronted  by  Pierre,  rubbing 
his  eyes  sleepily. 

"  Know'st  thou  aught  of  the  rector  to- 
night, Pierre?  He  was  absent  from  ves- 
pers." 

"  Nothing,  Father  Thomas,"  replied 
Pierre,  yawning  behind  the  flame  of  the 
candle  in  his  hand. 

"  By  my  girth,  Pierre,  thou  gapest  like  a 
hunter's  dog,"  said  good-natured  Brother 
Francis.  "  The  father  hath  not  returned 
since  going  out  more  than  an  hour  since  ?  " 

Pierre  led  the  way  back  into  the  square 
antechamber  lined  with  books,  replying  the 
while  to  the  question.  "  'Tis  unlikely  I 
should  be  tending  his  fire  when  my  bones 
ache  for  sleep,  brother,  had  he  returned. 
The  holy  father  hath  not  been  in  full  health 
of  late.  Even  warm  days  have  cool  nights. 
The  fire  must  be  cheerful  on  his  return." 
Pierre  lounged  down  upon  a  settle,  drowsily 


148  The  Devil's  Plough 

stroking  the  cat,  who  jumped  up  on  to  his 
knees. 

"  Hath  his  brother,  Monsieur  de  Chatil- 
lon,  been  here,  Pierre  ?  "  Brother  Thomas 
asked,  listening  at  the  chamber  door. 

"  Not  to-day,  Brother  Thomas."  Pierre 
and  the  cat  both  stretched  indifferently. 

"  Father  L'Artanges  left  no  word  in  going 
out,  Pierre  ? " 

"  None  that  I  heard,  brother.  Our  rec- 
tor meant  not  to  be  absent  from  vespers, 
that  I  can  swear  to,  for  he  holds  his  duty 
above  his  life."  Pierre  arose  at  once  in  his 
defence. 

"  Deo  gratias."  Brother  Thomas  came 
close  to  the  fire.  "  Pierre,  it  is  part  of  thy 
obedience  as  a  lay  brother  to  keep  thy 
superior  informed  of  misdemeanour  about 
the  college.     I  am  thy  superior." 

"  Deo  gratias.  Brother  Thomas.  Wouldst 
thou  have  me  invent  news  of  a  scandalous  na- 
ture for  thy  entertainment  ?  I  have  nothing 
to  report,  —  I'm  sleepy.  Wait  till  sunrise. 
Once  awake,  I  may  have  more  tales  to  tell. 
Good  night,  brothers.  The  cock  will  break 
upon  the  nightingale  before  thou  hast  slept. 


The  Devil's  Plough  149 

The  bird  sings  nightly  in  the  rose  garden. 
Good  night."  Pierre's  jaw  dropped ;  he 
breathed  with  a  slight  snore. 

"  'Tis  true  that  every  virtuous  man  should 
be  abed,"  affirmed  Brother  Francis,  yawning 
contagiously.  "  What  matters  it  about  the 
rector,  Brother  Thomas  ?  Thy  nose  for 
duty  sometimes  doth  grow  too  long.  'Tis 
well  to  show  our  own  virtue  by  doing  what 
seems  best  for  others.     Let  us  to  sleep." 

Father  Thomas  shook  his  head  apprehen- 
sively while  they  recrossed  the  antechamber. 
"  He  hath  not  been  himself  this  month  past. 
Hast  thou  not  noticed  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  that  Monsieur  de  Chatillon's 
frequent  coming,  contrary  to  rule,  may  cause 
the  father  grave  annoyance,"  Brother  Francis 
replied,  opening  the  door. 

They  glided  on  together  through  the  re- 
fectory and  along  many  corridors,  examining 
the  house  for  the  night,  continuing  their 
conversation  as  they  went. 

"  Father  Gaston  hath  given  it  out  quietly 
that  he  is  intent  upon  the  saving  of  his 
brother's  soul,  and  that  he  hath  hopes  to 
win  him  to  the  Order.     I  know  not,  except 


150  The  Devil's  Plough 

this  coming  and  going  is  against  the  written 
constitution." 

"The  end  might  justify  the  means, — 
but  'tis  doubtful."  Brother  Thomas's  head 
again  wagged.  "It  would  be  a  notable 
accession,  —  Monsieur  de  Chatillon's  for- 
tune is  no  small  drop  in  the  right  bucket. 
All  goes  to  the  greater  glory  of  God  with 
us ;  and  yet  this  absence  is  flagrant  and 
dangerous  to  the  welfare  of  our  novices." 

"What  if  the  general  should  know  of 
it  ?  "  Brother  Francis  asked,  apprehensively. 

"  The  matter  as  it  stands  hath  this  very 
morning  gone  to  Rome.  Obedience  is  the 
first  law  of  a  Jesuit." 

Brother  Francis  evinced  his  regret  at  the 
situation  by  rapidly  patting  the  point  of  his 
tongue  just  behind  his  upper  teeth  against 
the  roof  of  his  mouth ;  with  this  sound  their 
footsteps  fell  away  into  the  distance. 

Meantime,  Pierre  had  awakened  from  his 
slumbers  with  amazing  ease  and  rapidity. 
Depositing  the  cat  on  the  hearth,  he  tiptoed 
toward  the  door  in  pursuit  of  the  brothers. 
Just  this  side  he  pressed  one  ear  against  the 
crack  and  listened. 


The  Devil's  Plough  151 

"  Gone  !  "  he  muttered.  "  Holy  Mother  ! 
'tis  well !  I  caught  a  fish  left-handed  this 
morning.  'Tis  a  bad  sign."  He  moved 
toward  a  point  in  the  wall  close  by  the 
window  overlooking  the  garden.  Again  he 
listened.  "  Nothing  !  "  the  cat  heard  him 
say,  and  looked  up  with  a  wink.  Then 
Pierre  smiled  at  one  corner  of  his  mouth, 
seeing  the   wink. 

"  Brother  Puss,"  he  said,  kneeling  down 
on  one  knee  beside  the  cat,  and  holding  the 
animal  erect  on  its  tail  and  hind  legs,  "  who 
taught  thee  the  ways  of  the  boulevards  — 
thou,  a  lay  member  of  a  holy  brotherhood  ? 
The  ways  of  hell  are  born  in  the  kit  and 
the  babe ;  'tis  no  wonder  the  man  and  the 
cat,  in  spite  of  penances,  follow  the  devil's 
plough.  Brother  Puss,  canst  thou  believe 
our  holy  father  —  may  the  Virgin  give  him 
grace  !  —  hath  put  himself  under  ban  of  the 
society  this  night  ?  'Tis  so,  and  there  is 
more  to  come.  Thy  brother  Thomas  is  no 
friend  to  greatness.  Didst  thou  ever  feel  a 
flea  in  thine  ear  ?  'Tis  like  the  general  at 
Rome  will  feel  one  soon."  Pierre  dropped 
the  cat,  sighed,  listened  again,  then  relaxed 


152  The  Devil's  Plough 

himself  well  down  into  the  corner  of  the 
settle  on  the  way  to  sleep. 

"It  may  be  that  in  New  France  Father 
Gaston  might  find  life  easier.  Madelon, 
little  girl,  thou  wouldst  be  safe  from  the 
streets  of  Paris  ;  and  Pierre,  —  why,  Pierre, 
'tis  said  a  river  as  wide  as  all  Paris  flows  in 
New  France,  and  wherever  a  river  flows, 
fish  swim  to  the  hook."  Pierre  soon  ceased 
thinking  and  snored  naturally.  The  crack- 
ling fire  failed  to  arouse  him,  but  presently 
a  scratch  came  on  the  small  door  near  the 
window  at  Father  Gaston's  private  entrance 
from  the  garden,  and  the  man  jumped  in- 
stantly to  his  feet.  He  spoke  cautiously 
upon  reaching  the  door.  "  Father  !  Cheva- 
lier !  Caution  !  Father  Thomas  hath  a  long 
nose  to-night."  There  was  no  reply,  but 
when  Pierre  opened  the  door  sufficiently  to 
permit  a  slight  figure's  entrance,  there  sprang 
into  the  room  a  masked  page,  to  Pierre's 
incredulous  amazement. 

"Paul!  Paul!  Save  me!"  cried  the 
lad,  removing  his  mask,  blinking  his  eyes 
in  the  firelight,  and  shivering.  Pierre  still 
stood  with  his  mouth  wide  open.     The  two 


The  Devil's  Plough  153 

gazed  at  each  other  without  more  words 
until  Pierre  demanded,  "  What  do  you  here, 
young  gentleman,  —  on  holy  ground,  in  a 
brotherhood  of  Jesuits  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  man,"  replied  the  lad,  from 
between  chattering  teeth.  "  I  seek  Monsieur 
Paul  de  Chatillon.  Oh,  that  butcher!  I 
shall  see  his  image  eternally !  There  was 
blood  on  his  face.  He  forced  me  to  cry, 
'  Down  with  Mazarin,*  or  he  would  kiss 
me.  The  brutes !  They  are  abroad  again 
to-night,  singing  vile  songs  to  the  queen. 
Where  is  Monsieur  de  Chatillon?  'Tis 
impossible  that  I  return  alone."  Again  he 
shivered,  holding  delicate,  jewelled  hands 
out  to  the  fire  for  warmth. 

"  Young  gentleman,  chevaliers  reside  not 
in  Jesuit  colleges,"  Pierre  said,  reprov- 
ingly. 

"  But  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  gave  me  a  key 
to  the  garden  gate  at  the  first  turning  beyond 
the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  bade  me  scratch  on  the 
door  at  the  right  of  the  first  window  bearing 
upon  the  river,  if  he  could  not  be  found 
elsewhere  in  Paris,  and  my  need  of  him 
became   imperative.      It   is !      It   is,   man ! 


154  The  Devil's  Plough 

Summon  the  chevalier  without  delay.  Ugh  ! 
That  butcher ! " 

"  Monsieur,  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  is  not 
here."  Pierre  looked  suspiciously  at  the 
lad,  who  tapped  the  floor  impatiently  with 
one  high-heeled  shoe. 

"  Man,  thou  art  deceiving  me.  'Tis  un- 
likely the  chevalier  would  give  me  entrance 
to  a  private  residence  were  he  not  to  be 
found  there.  Is  it  money  thou  requir'st? 
Take  this."  He  drew  a  purse  from  his 
bosom,  but  Pierre  shook  his  head  nega- 
tively at  sight  of  the  golden  louis  proffered. 

"Young  gentleman,  no  money  will  buy 
what  is  not  here.  Some  one  is  at  fault  in 
bringing  you  to  this  place.  If  the  priests 
should  know  of  this,  'twould  make  great 
scandal  for  Father  Gaston.  The  eyes  of 
Pierre  are  not  yet  dim.  He  knows  a 
woman  when  he  sees  her." 

"  Father  Gaston  !  "  exclaimed  the  page, 
glancing  over  his  own  figure  questioningly. 
"  Is  it  here  Father  Gaston  resides  ?  Then 
Paul  hath  led  me  to  his  brother's  apartment. 
He  must  be  here.  For  the  love  of  the 
Virgin,   Pierre,  —  if  that   be   thy  name, — 


The  Devil's  Plough  155 

bring  me  the  chevalier  or  Father  Gaston. 
I  am  weary  to  faintness.  My  enterprise  was 
more  venturesome  than  I  knew.  Thou 
knowst  not  my  great  weariness."  He  laid 
his  delicate  head  childishly  against  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  in  so  doing  brushed  off 
his  cap  with  one  arm.  Long  burnished  hair 
fell  to  his  waist.  "  Thou  seest  the  situation, 
good  Pierre,"  Heloise  de  Luneville  con- 
tinued, wearily.  "  I  trust  thee  to  help  a 
lady  in  distress  as  thou  wouldst  thy  daughter 
Madelon.  She  tells  me  of  thy  goodness, 
and  of  thy  fish."  Her  touch  upon  Pierre's 
two  salient  points  of  tenderness  proved  more 
effective  than  had  the  golden  louis.  He 
bowed  before  her  gravely. 

"  Comtesse  de  Luneville,  the  best  I  can 
do  is  to  lead  madame  la  comtesse  out  at  the 
garden  gate,  as  would  become  a  father  with 
his  daughter.  'Tis  true  the  Chevalier  de 
Chatillon  doth  visit  his  brother  in  the  college 
by  the  private  gate,  but  'tis  against  all  rules 
of  Jesuits.  Even  so,  madame  la  comtesse 
must,  I  beg,  believe  the  word  of  an  honest 
tongue,  —  the  chevalier  hath  not  been  here 
this  day  nor  night." 


156  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Then  I  will  await  his  coming,  honest 
Pierre.  Give  me  a  seat  by  the  fire.  The 
Comtesse  de  Luneville  is  unaccustomed  to 
walking ;  her  feet  do  not  well  become  a  page, 
—  neither  doth  her  hair.  Puss,  how  lik'st 
thou  a  boy  with  long  hair  ?  "  Heloise  rested 
in  the  corner  of  the  settle,  playing  with  long 
strands  of  her  loosened  hair  as  she  gazed 
curiously  around  the  room. 

"This  is  where  the  great  Father  L'Ar- 
tanges  passeth  his  life,  thou  say  est,  Pierre  ^  " 
she  asked,  with  interest. 

"It  is,  madame  la  comtesse ;  and  have 
you  no  regard  for  his  reputation,  if  none  for 
your  own  ?  "  Pierre  was  anxiously  listening 
again  over  by  the  window. 

"If  the  chevalier  doth  not  soon  appear  I 
will  speak  with  Father  Gaston,  then  go  —  " 

"  Ssh,  countess,  ssh  1  Listen  !  Foot- 
steps along  the  garden ;  'tis  likely  Father 
Gaston  returning  —  " 

"  Or  the  chevalier,"  added  the  countess, 
in  a  whisper,  rising  and  listening  too. 
"  Will  he  come  in  at  that  door  ^  " 

"  Not  until  I  admit  him.  Some  one 
comes."     A  distinct  scratching  was  heard. 


The  Devil's  Plough  157 

"  Hide  me,  Pierre,  hide  me !  'Tis  not 
Father  Gaston  I  desire  to  see.  Hide  me, 
until  he  retires  into  his  chamber,  and  I  will 
dower  thy  Madelon  fit  for  a  shopkeeper's 
wife."  Pierre  hesitated;  the  scratching  grew 
impatient ;  a  key  was  heard  to  turn  in  the 
lock.  Swiftly  he  ran  to  a  great  closet  behind 
the  settle  and  opened  it  wide,  saying,  with 
apprehensive  warning,  "  Enter,  countess, 
and  say  no  words  even  were  rats  to  gnaw 
thee."  The  closet  door  closed  upon  Heloise. 
Pierre  ran  to  the  window,  muttering, 
"  Woman,  thou  art  the  devil's  plough  driven 
over  the  souls  of  men." 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  he  called,  in  a  low  tone, 
leaning  out  of  the  window. 

"  'Tis  I,  —  De  Chatillon,"  came  the 
whispered  reply.     "Is  all  safe  ?  " 

Pierre  admitted  Father  Gaston's  brother, 
wearing  a  hat  but  no  cloak. 

"  Pierre,  for  the  love  of  Father  Gaston  do 
as  I  bid  thee,"  said  De  Chatillon,  breath- 
lessly, as  he  entered  carrying  a  large  key  in 
one  shaking  hand.  "  There  are  gentlemen 
following,  —  so  close  they  may  have  seen 
me  enter.     For  the  sake  of  Father  Gaston 


158  The  Devil's  Plough 

they  must  not  say  his  brother  visits  here.  I 
am  not  here,  —  thou  understand'st  ?  Open 
the  door  at  once,  admit  them.  Show  them 
I  am  not  here ;  but  Father  L'Artanges  is  in 
his  apartment,  deep  in  meditation,  not  to  be 
disturbed.  For  the  love  of  Father  Gaston, 
keep  thy  wits  about  thee." 

Pierre  stood  listening  in  wide-eyed  disap- 
proval until  De  Chatillon  had  disappeared 
into  the  adjoining  room,  then  he  opened  the 
closet  door  slightly. 

"  Countess,  is  the  air  sufficient  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Canst  endure  it  yet  awhile  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  For  the  sake  of  your  reputation  make 
no  sign  until  I  bid  you,  countess." 

He  hurried  back  to  the  window.  Dis- 
putatious voices  were  heard  outside,  also 
a  great  fumbling  at  the  door,  whose  bolt 
Pierre  had  sprung  after  De  Chatillon. 

"  'Twas  as  I  said.  He  is  not  here, 
Henri." 

"  I  saw  him  enter,  —  by  God's  life,  I 
saw  him  enter  at  this  door.  'Tis  bolted. 
It  must  have  been  the  window  he  entered. 


The  Devil's   Plough  159 

Did  I  not  see  him  enter,  De  Trouville  ? 
I'd  stake  my  thrust  on  it." 

"  That  he  entered  here  is  certain,"  said 
another  voice. 

"I  told  thee.  Christian.  I'll  give  him 
my  thrust  to  feel  of  yet.  By  heaven,  I'd 
fight  him  and  Saint-Evremond  together,  if 
need  be,  —  spit  the  two  of  them  on  the 
same  blade  like  chickens." 

Pierre  leaned  out  of  the  window.  "  Art 
thou  the  devil's  brood  outside,  disturbing 
the  sacred  peace  of  the  cloisters  ? "  he 
called. 

"  Hey,  grandfather  !  What  say'st  thou  ? 
We  would  enter,  in  search  of  Monsieur  de 
Chatillon,  —  coward  and  rat." 

"  This  is  no  tavern,  but  a  house  of  Christ. 
Chevaliers  find  not  themselves  at  home 
here,"  Pierre  called  back,  temporising. 

"  Curse  upon  thee,  man.  We  saw  him,  — 
three  of  us,  —  gentlemen  of  France.  Else 
'twas  a  miracle." 

Pierre,  lighting  these  three  gentlemen  of 
France  with  a  candle,  admitted  them. 

De  Bouteville  sprang  through  the  door 
first,  still  uncertain  of  anything  other  than  his 


i6o  The  Devil's  Plough 

own  thrust  and  De  Chatillon's  disappearance 
before  his  very  eyes. 

"  So,  good  man,  Brother  Grandfather, 
thou  know'st  a  gentleman  of  France  is  not 
to  be  turned  from  his  purpose  by  bolts 
or  bars  ? "  he  called,  tapping  Pierre's  ear 
with  his  sword-hilt.  "  Know'st  thou  me, 
man  ? " 

"  Surely,  monsieur,  by  reputation."  Pierre 
stood  over  against  the  fireplace.  The  gentle- 
men, after  taking  curious  glances  about  the 
room,  followed  him  there. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Monsieur  Henri  Sequarde- 
Joinville  de  Bouteville.  Thou  hast  perhaps 
heard  of  the  thrust  of  Saint-Evremond  ?  I 
say  I  have  a  better,  man.  De  Chatillon 
denies  it.  He  giveth  me  the  lie.  Brother 
Grandfather,  the  lie !  And  he  runs  like  a 
rat  into  a  hole  of  priests  —  " 

"  Henri !  "  remonstrated  Du  Brion.  "  'Tis 
consecrated  ground.  Thy  tongue  doth  thee 
wrong.  Let  us  retire  quietly,  —  'tis  no  place 
for  such  as  we.  Leave  De  Chatillon  to  dream 
of  his  sins.     He'll  keep  till  to-morrow." 

"  Keep  !  Keep  till  to-morrow !  *Tis 
likely  he'll  last  till  the  devil  lays  a  hand  on 


The  Devil's  Plough  i6i 

him,  but  I'm  damned  if  I'll  evaporate." 
De  Bouteville  moved  about  the  dim  room, 
thrusting  with  his  sword  at  the  shadows 
while  he  talked.  De  Trouville  whispered 
something  aside  to  Du  Brion,  at  sound  of 
which  De  Bouteville  turned  upon,  them 
drunkenly.  "  Hein  !  'Tis  plain,  'tis  fear 
thou  hast  for  these  petticoated  saints  of 
Ignatius's  tree.  Drink  no  more.  Christian, 
I  love  thee  better  sober;  drink  shakes  thy 
nerves."  Then  he  called  loudly,  "  Come 
out,  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  !  I  have  a  hat 
with  which  to  adorn  a  coward's  head." 

"  Monsieur  calls  for  nothing  and  nothing 
will  come,"  insisted  Pierre. 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  laughed  De  Bouteville, 
crushing  the  hat  down  over  Pierre's  head 
and  ears. 

Du  Brion  laid  a  determined  hand  on  his 
friend's  arm.  "  De  Bouteville,  hast  thou 
lost  all  reason  ?     Come  away." 

The  bully  removed  the  hat  and  suddenly 
fell  into  the  voice  of  a  whimpering  child. 
"  Now  you're  angry  with  me.  Christian. 
There,  I'll  be  so  quiet  and  reasonable." 
He  whispered  to  Pierre,  going  close  up  to 


1 62  The  Devil's  Plough 

his  ear  for  that  purpose,  "  Reverend  grand- 
father, where  is  the  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  ?  " 

"  No  such  gentleman  is  here,  monsieur." 
Pierre  still  stood  immovable  by  the  fireplace, 
outside  Father  Gaston's  private  apartment. 

"  To  be  sure,"  laughed  De  Bouteville. 
"  But  where  is  he  ?  My  friend  Du  Brion 
saw  him,  —  I  saw  him,  —  even  Monsieur 
de  Trouville  saw  him.  Reliable  witnesses, 
think  you  ?  Two  of  whom  are  drunk  ;  but 
I'm  not  drunk,  grandfather,  I'm  a  wakeful 
cat,  —  by  my  thrust,  I  am.  My  thrust, — 
not  the  equal  of  Saint-Evremond's,  but  'twill 
do,  —  'twill  do  to  break  down  that  door 
thou  guard'st  if  the  rat  come  not  soon  out 
of  his  hole. 

"  There  were  three  men  who  climbed  a  wall. 
And  two  were  short  — 

That's  a  lie,  but  excusable  in  a  poet. 

"  And  one  was  tall  — 

Loose  thy  hand.  Christian  ! 

*' And  two  were  drunk,  and  that  is  all. 

Thou  seest.  Brother  Grandfather,  we  follow 
the  muse  quite  in  the  Rambouillet  fashion, 


The  Devil's  Plough  163 

and  it  leads  us  away  from  our  subject. 
Thou  must  not  imagine  me  to  be  in  wine, 
man.  I'm  De  Bouteville  — "  A  slight 
cough  was  heard  near  by.  "  Ah,  gentlemen, 
the  rat  squealed  !  From  which  door  came 
the  sound  ?  Put  thy  ears  to  the  keyholes. 
I  saw  De  Chatillon  go  in,  and  now  I'll  see 
him  come  out  or  lose  my  family  reputation. 
Stand  from  before  the  door,  man,  or  I'll  run 
thee  through." 

"  Henri,  thou  goest  too  far."  Du  Brion 
was  plainly  anxious.  "  Canst  thou  not  be 
persuaded  by  the  face  of  a  golden  louis, 
good  man,  to  take  us  to  Monsieur  de 
Chatillon  ?  "  He  showed  Pierre  a  handful 
of  money. 

"  No  golden  louis  can  buy  that  which  is 
not,  monsieur,"  Pierre  still  insisted. 
_  "  Who    hast    thou    hidden    behind    that 
door,    then  ?     I    heard   a   sound.      Whose 
cough  was  that  ?  " 

Pierre  stood  guard  upon  a  lady's  repu- 
tation and  a  gentleman's  life ;  his  heavy 
features,  expressionless  except  when  illu- 
minated by  deep  love  of  Madelon  or  Father 
Gaston,  now  sharpened  under  the  keen  edge 


164  The  Devil's  Plough 

of  his  responsibilities ;  his  mind  worked 
laboriously  about  the  problem  confronting 
him.  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  was  in  the 
father's  room ;  but  how  to  protect  him,  — 
that  was  no  easy  matter. 

"  'Tis  the  private  apartment  of  the  holy 
father,  L'Artanges,"  he  answered,  carefully. 
"  He  hath  been  unwell  for  the  month  past. 
The  holy  father  may  have  coughed.  Would 
the  noble  gentlemen  of  France  disturb  a 
holy  father  at  his  devotions  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not  right,  gentlemen  ? "  ex- 
claimed De  Bouteville,  triumphantly.  "  De 
Chatillon  seeks  protection  from  his  Jesuit 
brother.  Well,  'tis  not  to  the  greater  glory 
of  God  that  he  should  escape  me.  Come, 
make  way,  old  man.  L'Artanges  must  an- 
swer for  the  rats  he  makes  holes  for."  He 
leaned  across  Pierre,  and  gave  the  door  a 
sharp  rap  with  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  but  the 
other  two  gentlemen  moved  back  together 
in  despair  of  the  result.  In  reply,  the  door 
quietly  opened,  and  from  the  threshold 
there  advanced  into  the  room  Father  Gaston 
in  his  usual  garb,  wearing  his  accustomed 
manner  of  serene  composure.     "Pierre,"  he 


The  Devil's  Plough  165 

asked,  "  What  meaneth  this  unwonted  dis- 
turbance ?  "  But  Pierre  dropped  his  candle 
to  the  floor ;  he  gaped  at  the  father ;  his  lips 
moved  in  the  words,  "A  miracle  !  "  and  he 
crossed  himself  in  awe  of  the  spectacle. 


Chapter  X 

"/GENTLEMEN,"  began  Father  Gas- 
vj  ton,  with  much  dignity,  looking  the 
intruders  up  and  down,  "to  what  have  I 
the  honour — "  But  Du  Brion  interrupted 
him  penitently. 

"Your  pardon,  father,  if  this  grave  of- 
fence of  intrusion  be  pardonable.  This 
madcap  friend  of  ours  hath  a  quarrel  with 
Chevalier  de  Chatillon,  and,  seeing  him  by 
chance,  hath  followed  him  across  the  city, 
finally  to  this  place,  we  with  him  to  preserve 
the  peace  as  best  we  might.  The  night 
may  have  deceived  our  eyes,  but  we  do  be- 
lieve we  saw  your  brother  enter  that  door 
before  which  Monsieur  de  Trouville  now 
stands." 

"  I  could  have  pricked  him  with  my 
sword,  had  he  been  an  inch  nearer  to  me 
when  the  door  closed  on  him,"  De  Boute- 
ville  asserted. 

i66 


The  Devil's  Plough  167 

"  Gentlemen,"  replied  Father  Gaston, 
gravely,  "  there  can  be  no  question  of  your 
word  in  this  matter,  even  though  there 
be  grave  question  of  your  deportment. 
Neither  can  there  be  taken  question  of  my 
word.  So  there  hangs  the  matter  on  a  slip- 
pery point  inclining  two  ways.  'Tis  my 
word  that  the  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  is  not 
here."  Pierre,  now  standing  far  back  in 
the  shadow,  crossed  himself.  "  'Tis  your 
word  that  you  saw  him  enter.  In  France  a 
difference  of  opinion  is  settled  with  the 
sword,  but  in  heaven  'tis  otherwise,  and  'tis 
my  chance  to  dwell  within  the  outskirts  of 
the  more  virtuous  place.  I  bid  you  depart 
in  peace,  and  so  arrange  your  disputations 
with  my  brother  and  me  according  to  the 
injunction  of  Heaven." 

"  'Tis  under  the  Jesuit  skirts  you  would 
protect  a  coward  ! "  exclaimed  De  Boute- 
ville,  clinching  his  sword. 

"  You  have  known  my  brother  long,  mon- 
sieur. Hath  it  been  his  habit  to  seek  protec- 
tion from  thy  sword,  or  that  of  any  man  ?  " 

"  It  hath  not  till  of  late,  but  now  his  val- 
our resembieth  the  courage  of  a  woman  with 


1 68  The  Devil's  Plough 

a  mouse."  Again  a  slight  cough  was  heard. 
"  Listen !  There  is  the  sound  again,  De 
Trouville.  By  Joseph's  coat,  I'll  have  him 
yet ! " 

Father  Gaston  looked  toward  Pierre,  who 
had  turned  his  back.  "  Pierre,  what  was 
the  sound  so  disturbing  to  the  gentlemen's 
ears  ?  "  the  father  asked. 

"  'Twas  Father  Thomas  coughing  on  his 
nightly  round,"  answered  Pierre,  slightly 
opening  the  closet  door.  "  The  dust  of  a 
convent  tickleth  the  throat." 

"  You  perceive.  Monsieur  de  Bouteville," 
continued  the  rector,  warming  his  hands 
before  the  fire,  "  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
misapprehend.  But  receive  my  assurances 
that,  were  it  possible  for  me  to  prevent 
your  duel  with  my  brother,  I  should  take 
all  honourable  means  to  do  so.  What  is 
your  quarrel  with  my  brother  ?  " 

De  Bouteville  looked  morose.  "  You  have 
me  not  at  confessional.  Father  L'Artanges. 
The  cause  of  my  quarrel  is  of  no  conse- 
quence to  any  man  but  myself.  'Tis  enough 
to  say  he  hath  insulted  me,  and,  by  my 
faith,  he  must  support  the  consequences." 


The  Devil's  Plough  169 

"  This  evil  custom  ever  outweighs  con- 
sideration of  its  own  injustice,"  replied  L'Ar- 
tanges,  rubbing  his  hands  before  the  fire. 

"  You  are  of  the  Red  Cardinal's  cloth," 
muttered  De  Bouteville,  walking  about  im- 
patiently. 

"  Monsieur,"  L'Artanges  proceeded,  in 
a  tone  pointed  as  needles,  "  the  evening  is 
cool  for  springtime,  and  the  night  hurrieth 
toward  the  morn.  If  my  judgment  be  not 
at  fault,  your  condition  would  be  relieved 
by  bed  and  slumber.  But  first  bathe  your 
humour  by  inspection  of  the  adjoining 
apartment;  then,  having  cooled  your  blood 
in  the  knowledge  that  Monsieur  de  Cha- 
tillon  is  not  here,  draw  up  to  the  fire  and 
take  comfort  before  departing.  But  now 
the  clock  struck  ten,  —  I  am  not  custom- 
arily late  to  bed." 

"  'Tis  true,  my  courtesy  is  at  fault  in  re- 
maining an  unwelcome  guest.  A  gentleman 
can  do  no  more,  nor  less,  than  accept  his 
host's  statement.  If  Father  L'Artanges  says 
Monsieur  de  Chatillon  is  not  in  the  next 
apartment.  Monsieur  de  Bouteville  can  only 
accept  the  same,  reserving  the  right  to  his 


lyo  The  Devil's  Plough 

own  belief  in  the  matter.  I  will  leave  with 
Father  L'Artanges  a  form  of  challenge  not 
familiar  in  France.  Permit  Monsieur  du 
Brion  to  have  pen  and  paper,  —  he  is  the 
better  scribe,  —  then  we  will  depart,  leaving 
our  message  in  your  hands."  L'Artanges 
bowed,  then,  turning  to  Pierre,  bade  him 
go  into  the  next  room,  leave  the  door  wide 
open,  and  return  with  the  required  articles. 

"Your  message  shall  be  delivered.  Mon- 
sieur de  Bouteville.  But  it  is  the  truth 
that  I  only  agree  to  this  because  by  so 
doing  I  give  both  you  and  my  brother 
time  for  calmer  thought.  Such  power  as 
is  mine  I  shall  use  to  prevent  him  from 
considering  the  challenge.  Pierre,  furnish 
Monsieur  du  Brion  every  accommodation." 

Du  Brion  sat  down  to  a  cabinet  and 
wrote.  L'Artanges  continued,  "  Monsieur 
de  Bouteville,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  the 
recollection,  you  and  my  brother  have 
fought  side  by  side  in  the  wars,  —  there 
was  one  time  when  you  saved  my  brother's 
life  in  Flanders  ?  " 

"He  told  you  that?"  murmured  De 
Bouteville, 


The  Devil's  Plough  171 

"There  is  but  little  I  do  not  know  con- 
cerning my  brother's  life.  There  was  a 
time,  monsieur,  when  he  held  you  high 
in  his  esteem  and  admiration." 

"  *Tis  possible  —  but  the  thrust  of  Saint- 
Evremond  — "  L'Artanges's  power  over 
men  was  working ;  De  Bouteville  sobered 
rapidly. 

"It  is  a  truth  that,  though  circumstances 
may  bring  a  friendship  to  an  end,  yet 
often  the  affection  it  engendered  blooms 
for  ever.  My  brother  hath  no  quarrel  with 
you.  He  hath  told  me  so.  'Tis  not  the 
rule  for  a  priest  to  confess  his  brother, 
but  my  brother  Paul  hath  sought  my  con- 
fidence, and,  at  the  risk  of  the  Order's  dis- 
pleasure, I  have  endeavoured  to  draw  him 
away  from  worldly  pleasures  and  tempta- 
tions." 

"And  In  so  doing  hath  turned  a  soldier 
to  a  priest  and  spoiled  a  gentleman," 
De  Bouteville  replied,  hastily.  L'Artanges 
smiled  peculiarly,  but  made  no  direct  reply 
to  the  interruption. 

"You  admit,  monsieur,  your  friendship 
for  my  brother  in  the  past ;  also,  that  Mon- 


172  The  Devil's  Plough 

sieur  de  Chatillon  is  so  far  in  your  debt  that 
to  cross  swords  with  you  would  be  from 
him  an  act  of  great  ingratitude  —  " 

"  I  at  this  moment  absolve  him  from 
every  indebtedness  to  me."  De  Bouteville 
bowed  formally. 

"  That,  though  no  longer  friends,  each  of 
you  hath  left  a  kindly  thought  in  the  other's 
life.  For  his  chance  statement  of  opinion 
shall  a  cloud  arise,  spreading  until  it  darkens 
the  remainder  of  life  for  one  of  you,  and 
covers  with  its  black  shadow  the  soul  of 
the  other,  hurried  unsummoned  into  an- 
other life?  It  is  my  request  that  you 
only  consult  your  highest  courage,  mon- 
sieur, —  of  the  courage  of  the  duellist  you 
have  both  given  proof  indisputable.  If 
Monsieur  de  Bouteville  declined  to  press 
this  quarrel,  who  dares  dispute  his  courage  ? 
It  lies  with  me  to  send  you  from  this  house 
of  Christ  bearing  the  curse  of  the  Church 
upon  you ;  with  the  finger  of  God's  dis- 
pleasure for  ever  on  your  shoulder;  or, 
this  meeting  I  could  prevent  by  an  appeal 
to  the  authorities  of  Paris  —  " 

De    Bouteville    broke    in :  "  Prevent  it, 


The  Devil's  Plough  173 

and  'twill  save  your  brother's  skin  rather 
than  his  reputation." 

"  I  shall  do  neither  of  these  things,  mon- 
sieur. God  sees.  The  Divine  Saviour  hath 
your  conscience  in  his  tender  care.  I,  his 
servant,  am  but  his  mouthpiece.  I  but  ask 
you  to  do  your  part  toward  the  ending  of 
an  evil  custom,  unjust  in  itself,  and  the 
enemy  of  what  professed  religion  hath  de- 
clared to  be  the  highest  human  act,  —  the 
forgiveness  of  injury." 

Du  Brion  ceased  writing  and  gave  his 
attention.  De  Trouville  stood  fingering  his 
sword  in  a  listening  attitude.  De  Bouteville 
was  again  a  courteous  gentleman  of  France, 
tying  the  written  challenge  to  his  plume  and 
laying  the  hat  down  upon  the  cabinet. 
"  Father  L'Artanges,"  he  began,  "  but  this 
evening  it  was  that  I  said,  '  A  great  soldier 
of  France  was  spoiled  in  L'Artanges,  the 
preacher.'  Your  power  can  quell  the 
peasant's  blood,  —  can  wring  a  serious  epi- 
gram from  the  lightest  tongue  in  France ; 
but  it  cannot  turn  a  gentleman,  who  admires 
you,  from  the  pursuit  of  his  honour.  I 
have  the  honour  to  leave  my  challenge  in 


174  The  Devil's  Plough 

your  apartment,  with  the  hope  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Chatillon  will  no  longer  permit  Paris 
to  doubt  his  courage.  Come,  gentlemen,  we 
have  already  trespassed  too  long  upon  Father 
L'Artanges's  courtesy.  I  have  the  honour 
to  bid  you  good  evening."  He  bowed  and 
moved  toward  the  door,  followed  in  turn  by 
De  Trouville  and  Du  Brion. 

L'Artanges  stood  as  if  giving  audience 
before  his  own  fireside.  He  returned  each 
gentleman's  bow  courteously,  speaking  to 
Pierre  meanwhile.  "  Pierre,  conduct  the 
gentlemen  to  the  garden  gate.  I  have  the 
honour  to  wish  you  a  safe  return  to  Paris, 
gentlemen,  —  and  more  light  from  heaven." 

The  private  door  closed  upon  Pierre  and 
the  three  gentlemen,  then  L'Artanges  turned 
toward  the  fireplace  and  looked  far  down 
into  the  blaze  of  the  logs.  He  passed  one 
firm  white  hand,  whose  joints  were  strong, 
yet  flexible,  wearily  over  his  forehead  and 
eyes.  "  The  day  hath  been  long  and  weari- 
some. Life  scarce  seems  worth  the  difficulty 
of  living."  He  spoke  hopelessly  to  himself. 
"What  profiteth  a  man  if  he  gaineth  the 
whole  world  and  loseth  his    own   soul  ?  " 


The  Devil's  Plough  175 

He  stood  there  thoughtfully  during  a  silent 
moment,  then  looked  up  and  took  one  step 
toward  the  settle.  But  his  eyes  encountered 
some  amazing  sight;  his  feet  refused  to 
carry  him  farther.  Again  he  rubbed  one 
hand  over  his  eyes,  crying  out,  "The 
visions  of  my  mind  do  alarm  me !  Be- 
loved, beloved !  thy  face  doth  haunt  the 
regions  where  my  soul  finds  paradise ! " 
His  arms  unconsciously  extended  toward 
the  face  before  him.  A  voice  repHed, 
softly : 

"  Father  Gaston,  —  'tis  the  people's  name 
for  you.  May  I  call  you  Father  Gaston, 
thus  to  touch  your  gentle  nature,  —  the 
heart  that  will  forgive  my  presence  here .? " 

The  Comtesse  de  Luneville  came  slowly 
toward  him  from  out  the  shadow.  The 
priest's  body  stiflFened,  his  eyes  set  upon 
her ;  no  words  came  to  him.  Again  she 
addressed  him  without  eliciting  a  reply. 
The  countess  in  alarm  drew  near  and 
touched  his  sleeve.  "  Father  Gaston,  'tis 
I,  —  Comtesse  de  Luneville,  in  page's  dress. 
I  came  to  find  Paul  de  Chatillon.  Are  you 
ill?" 


176  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Paul  de  Chatillon  !  "  he  repeated.  His 
face  relaxed.  "  Paul  de  Chatillon?  Countess, 
there  lives  no  such  man  this  side  of  purgatory. 
Paul  de  Chatillon  !  My  brother  Paul  ?  "  He 
broke  into  a  short,  derisive  laugh. 

"  'Tis  needless  to  deny  his  presence  here. 
Father  Gaston,  for  'twas  his  voice  I  heard 
from  within  the  closet,  when  the  good  Pierre 
first  hid  me  there,"  she  insisted. 

"  His  voice  ?  Paul's  voice .?  Ah,  madame 
la  comtesse,  the  light  of  love  is  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  misleading  thee."  Changing  his  man- 
ner and  countenance,  as  if  suddenly  inspired 
with  some  new,  clear  thought,  he  asked,  "  If 
I  have  the  honour  to  entertain  Comtesse  de 
Luneville,  may  I  inquire  how  that  lady 
gained  entrance  into  the  private  apartment 
of  a  Jesuit  rector  ? " 

"  Paul  directed  me  to  the  garden  gate  at 
the  first  turning  beyond  the  Hotel  Dieu,  in 
case  of  necessity.     I  came  —  " 

L'Artanges  interrupted.  "  Pardon,  ma- 
dame la  comtesse,  but  what  necessity  could 
lead  you  to  Paul's  side,  having  once  given 
your  sacred  promise  in  confessional  to  avoid 
his  presence  ? " 


The  Devil's  Plough  177 

"  Oh,  father,"  the  lady  cried,  brushing  a 
handful  of  her  shining  locks  across  her  face 
and  relapsing  into  the  familiar  form  of 
speech,  "  father,  thou  know'st  not  love 
when  thou  asketh  a  woman  why  she  seek'st 
the  one  who  lights  the  world  for  her,  as  the 
sun  doth  the  gray  morning.  A  priest  can 
see  into  the  human  heart  only  so  far  as  his 
own  experience  leadeth  him.  Thou  know'st 
not  love.  Father  Gaston  !  "  She  sank  down 
on  to  the  settle,  covering  both  hands  over 
her  face ;  her  long  hair  fell  across  her  shoul- 
ders, veiling  exquisitely  the  slender  body  of 
the  lady. 

Father  Gaston's  flexible  mouth  assumed 
a  complicated  expression  composed  of  war- 
ring emotions.  One  hand  moved  toward 
the  settle,  but  he  grasped  it  with  the  other. 
"Thou  lov'st  my  brother  Paul  beyond  all 
reason,  madame  la  comtesse." 

"  Beyond  all  reason,"  she  replied  from 
behind  her  hands.  He  saw  tears  trickling 
through  her  fingers,  and  turned  away.  There 
was  silence  while  he  walked  across  the  room 
and  back  again. 

"  Countess,"  —  he  spoke  firmly,  standing 


1 78  The  Devil's  Plough 

now  close  beside  her,  — "  Pierre  will  soon 
return;  I  must  speak  with  thee  most  ear- 
nestly. Thou  seek'st  my  brother  to  give 
him  thy  life  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  —  or,  as  it  may  be,  to  bid 
him  farewell  for  eternity,  unless  'tis  planned 
by  Heaven  that  we  meet  again  in  some 
strange  life  beyond  our  knowledge.  Thou 
know'st  somewhat  of  this  purgatory,  where 
souls  must  go  in  preparation  for  eternal  life. 
Tell  me  of  it,  father,  —  what  thou  think'st 
thyself,  not  what  thou  hast  read  or  heard." 

"  Countess,"  the  priest  said,  gently,  "  pur- 
gatory to  Paul  de  Chatillon  will  be  whatever 
life  his  soul  knoweth  without  thee." 

She  looked  up.  "  Father  Gaston,  surely 
thou  knowest  somewhat  of  love." 

"  A  priest  creeps  close  within  the  human 
heart,  countess,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  to  say 
farewell  thou  seek'st  Paul,  —  because  thy 
heart  speaketh  what  God  above  hath  told 
thee  of  right,  or  —  "     He  hesitated. 

"  Because  he  is  in  danger  of  Chevalier  de 
Bouteville's  skill,  unless  he  be  a  coward, 
and  the  woman  who  loveth  him  beyond  all 
else  in  life  cannot  doubt  his  courage,"  she 


The  Devil's  Plough  179 

replied,  rising  nervously  and  pacing  the 
floor.  "  Father  Gaston,  throw  thy  priestly 
duty  to  one  side  and  open  thy  heart  to  my 
needs.  A  woman  such  as  I  cannot  live  with- 
out the  glory  of  a  worship  high  and  fine,  — 
a  love  which  turns  my  human  clay  to  gold, 
and  not  into  the  creature  Comte  de  Lune- 
ville  maketh  me." 

"  One  moment,  countess,"  L'Artanges 
interrupted,  visibly  disturbed  by  her  words. 
"  Pierre  returns,  —  I  hear  his  step." 

Pierre  entered,  shaking  his  head.  "The 
wind  fiseth,  father.  My  light  blew  out. 
'Tis  well  if  no  hint  of  to-night's  work  blows 
round  the  corner  of  thy  apartment  into  the 
nostrils  of  Father  Thomas."  Then  he  saw 
Heloise.  "  Madame  la  comtesse,  'twas  but 
a  woman's  promise  you  gave,  then.  Father 
Gaston  having  seen  madame  la  comtesse, 
'tis  no  longer  Pierre's  duty  to  protect  her 
good  name." 

"  Pierre,"  said  Father  Gaston,  "  thou  hast 
been  this  lady's  friend.  Continue  to  be. 
For  one  moment  she  would  speak  with  me 
alone.  Mount  thou  guard  outside  that 
door,  and,  if  'tis  necessary,  scratch  slightly 


i8o  The  Devil's  Plough 

in  alarm."  He  indicated  the  refectory  door. 
Heloise  said,  tremulously,  "  Good  Pierre,  I 
greatly  need  the  counsel  of  the  holy  father," 
and  Pierre  silently  but  doubtfully  left  the 
room  by  the  refectory  door. 

"  Father,"  immediately  began  Heloise, 
"  the  hour  has  come  when  I  must  seek  a 
new  life  or  sink  even  farther  back  into  the 
slough  of  the  old.  'Tis  rumoured  De  Lune- 
ville  is  pardoned." 

The  priest  shivered  as  if  a  cold  blast  had 
swept  through  the  room ;  then  he  made  an 
effort  to  command  himself  in  preparation 
for  some  difficult  endeavour  on  his  own 
part.  "  Comtesse  de  Luneville,"  —  he  spoke 
in  the  deepest  tones  of  his  wonderful  voice, 
— "  thou  art  a  woman  possessed  of  nobler 
purposes  than  those  with  whom  thy  life  is 
cast.  Seek  thy  heart  well  for  Heaven's 
counsel  before  thou  willingly  makest  a  step 
aside  from  the  path  of  thy  highest  duty.  A 
man  who  always  loves  thee  will  but  love 
thee  more  for  every  fine  and  noble  deed  or 
thought  he  sees  in  thee.  If  'tis  thy  wish, 
my  brother  Paul  shall  know  of  thy  desire 
to  bid  him  farewell,  also  the  other  circum- 


The  Devil's  Plough  i8i 

stances  attending,  but  I  beg  of  thee,  as  a 
noble  lady  of  France,  not  to  hunt  him  out 
until  he  seeks  thee." 

"  But,  father,  he  directed  me  to  this 
place." 

"  Doubtless,  in  a  moment  of  weakness. 
All  men  slip  momentarily  from  the  pedestal 
they  mount  of  their  own  free  will,  madame." 
The  priest  pressed  one  hand  down  against 
his  lungs,  as  was  his  habit  under  nervous 
agitation. 

"  Father  Gaston,"  the  lady  cried,  "  thou 
canst  not  keep  me  from  him  !  "  She  moved 
toward  the  private  apartment.  "  The  frozen 
waters  lie  still  and  waveless  until  the  spring 
sun  shineth  down  upon  and  warms  them  ; 
then  high  they  rise  above  the  level  of  their 
banks,  and  break  the  frozen  bonds  of  winter. 
So  with  my  heart,  —  I  heard  the  man  I  love 
cross  the  room  when  first  I  stood  within  the 
closet ;  I  heard  his  voice,  —  find  him  I  shall, 
if  my  life  thereby  be  forfeited  !  Paul !  Paul!" 
she  cried. 

"  Madame  la  comtesse,"  —  L'  Artanges 
followed  her  to  the  door,  — "  thou  must 
believe  my  brother  is  not  here." 


1 82  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  I  heard  the  man  I  love.  I  heard  his 
voice,"  she  repeated.  "  Thou  deceivest  me  ! 
Thou,  a  man  of  God  !  " 

"  Permit  me,  madame."  He  opened  the 
door  before  her.  "  Enter  and  examine. 
Paul  de  Chatillon  is  not  here." 

"  Who,  then,  was  the  man  I  heard  ? " 
she  asked,  weakly,  gazing  into  the  vacant 
room  beyond  the  door.  Her  strength  was 
giving  way  before  the  overpowering  exer- 
tions and  emotions  of  the  past  few  days. 

"  Paul  de  Chatillon  is  not  here,  madame," 
L'Artanges  continued  to  repeat  laboriously. 
"  I  swear  to  thee,  by  the  cross  of  Christ,  that 
Paul  de  Chatillon  is  not  here." 

She  gave  one  last  strained  look  around, 
then,  with  a  faint  cry,  "  Beloved,  where  art 
thou  ?  "  she  tottered  and  fell  against  L'Ar- 
tanges's  shoulder. 

"  Pierre  !  "  called  the  priest,  supporting 
the  lady  with  one  rigid  arm.  The  refectory 
door  opened.  "  Pierre,  bear  this  lady,  who 
is  indisposed,  out  through  the  garden,  care- 
fully, in  your  arms ;  then  see  that  she  is 
safely  conducted  to  her  home.  For  the 
greater    glory    of    God,    Pierre,  —  for    the 


The  Devil's   Plough  183 

greater  glory  of  God.  What  profiteth  a 
man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  loseth  his 
own  soul  ?  Thou  art  my  only  friend,  Pierre. 
I  am  now  Father  Gaston,  —  the  beloved  of 
the  people,  —  once  more  in  my  own  right 
mind,  I  can  look  God  in  the  face ;  I  have 
done  my  duty ;  I  have  gained  my  own  souL 
Ad  major  em  Dei  gloriam.     Laus  Deo  semper.'^ 


Chapter  XI 

THE  narrow  arm  of  the  Seine,  embrac- 
ing the  Isle  du  Palais  about  its  south- 
ern border,  flowed  lazily  along  until  it  joined 
the  main  channel  once  more  with  a  rush  of 
welcome.  Long  ago,  in  the  days  of  Pierre, 
the  Jesuit  lay  brother,  and  his  sweet  daugh- 
ter Madelon,  the  land  south  of  this  arm, 
lying  at  some  distance  beyond  a  short  bridge 
connecting  with  the  mainland  the  Isle  du 
Palais,  upon  which  stood  Notre  Dame  and 
its  cloisters,  was  thickly  wooded  down  to 
the  very  banks  of  the  stream. 

It  was  to  this  favourite  spot  Pierre  came 
with  Madelon,  his  bait,  and  fishing  tackle 
upon  the  first  fete  day  following  the  events 
of  that  strange  night  in  the  rector's  ante- 
chamber. Since  then  Father  Gaston  had 
been  away  on  his  annual  trip  to  Normandy, 
where,  by  special  dispensation,  he  was  per- 
mitted to  travel  on  foot  for  the  best  pur- 
184 


The  Devil's  Plough  185 

poses  of  his  health,  also  that  he  might 
preach  to  the  poor  in  those  quiet  villages 
of  the  north  country,  which  he  held  affec- 
tionately in  lasting  remembrance. 

At  the  point  of  the  river  selected  by 
Pierre  for  recreation  that  fair  June  day,  so 
close  on  the  heels  of  July  that  the  breeze 
smelled  sHghtly  of  midsummer,  the  bank  of 
the  stream  rose  in  a  slight,  perpendicular 
acclivity,  crowned  with  one  wide-armed  tree, 
all  moss-grown  about  its  roots,  where  Made- 
ion  sat  weaving  into  a  wreath  grass  blades, 
green  leaves,  and  delicate  wood  blossoms. 
The  dimples  in  her  hands  made  cups  for 
kisses  as  she  moved  them  in  and  out  among 
the  greens ;  one  long  braid  of  hair  fell  over 
her  shoulder,  and  her  strong,  round  ankles 
crossed  restfuUy,  one  over  the  other,  upon 
velvet  moss  growing  in  the  northern  shade 
of  the  tree.  The  morning  shadows  were 
fast  leaning  straight  with  the  sun,  but  the 
beauty  of  the  delicious  June  air  was  in  no 
wise  decreased  by  the  approach  of  mid-day 
heat. 

Pierre  sat  fishing  below  the  knoll,  but 
still  within  easy  speaking  distance.     Made- 


1 86  The  Devil's  Plough 

Ion  had  fitted  his  lay-brother's  hat  close 
about  a  stone,  so  that  it  might  not  blow 
away.  They  both  sat  bareheaded,  sipping 
the  air  without  vocal  exchange  of  the  joyous 
content  they  felt.  Madelon  and  her  father 
were  silent  people  together.  They  were  so 
entirely  accustomed  to  each  other's  minds 
that  words  seemed  misplaced  between  them. 

Pierre  soon  waded  to  the  knee  in  water, 
wearing  on  his  face  a  look  of  cheerful  deter- 
mination dangerous  to  the  fish.  Every  time 
he  drew  his  line,  his  mouth  opened  wide,  as 
if  that  aperture  were  held  in  reserve  for  the 
catch  once  landed.  "  Madelon,"  he  would 
call  over  his  shoulder  at  intervals,  "  thou 
must  be  quiet  as  an  owl  in  daylight,  lest 
monsieur  fish  like  not  thy  words  and  run 
away." 

The  girl  smiled  contentedly  at  each  warn- 
ing, but  made  no  reply.  The  birds  were  lazy 
with  their  tunes  and  calls  at  drowsy  mid-day, 
but  the  wood  animals  could  be  faintly  sensed 
browsing  about  amid  the  trees  at  no  great 
distance.  The  melodious  communion  of 
trees  and  all  other  forest  things  was  broken 
at  one  moment  by  the  approaching  sound  of 


The  Devil's  Plough  187 

huntsmen,  whose  falcons,  unhooded  not  far 
away,  flew  noisily  toward  the  stream  the 
length  of  many  rods,  then  suddenly  whirled 
about  and  flew  back  again,  leaving  the  mid- 
day prayers  of  Nature  inviolate.  Two  del- 
icate fawns  peeped  through  the  trees  at 
Madelon ;  looked  at  each  other,  then  ran 
away.  But  the  girl  saw  them  not,  so  intent 
was  she  upon  her  own  day-dreams,  twined 
in  the  interstices  of  the  slow-growing  wreath. 
Madelon's  was  no  commonplace  peasant 
face.  From  her  mother  came  the  taint  of 
illegitimate  aristocracy,  thus  accounting  for 
the  delicate  modelling  of  her  hands,  nose, 
and  ears.  Her  voice,  too,  was  beautiful ; 
Father  Gaston  had  but  recently  spoken  to 
the  chorister  of  Notre  Dame  about  instruct- 
ing her  in  singing,  and  this  fact  added  to  the 
joy  with  which  the  girl  now  hummed  bits 
of  tunes. 

The  wreath  being  completed,  she  ran  down 
to  the  river's  brink,  where  trees  cast  their 
shadows,  and  in  the  mirrors  thus  made  she 
looked  long  at  her  own  wreathed  reflection. 
Standing  thus,  she  half  chanted,  to  impro- 
vised cadences : 


The  Devil's  Plough 


** '  When  his  love  he  saw  at  last. 
Arms  about  her  did  he  cast. 
Kissed  her  often,  kissed  her  sweet, 
Kissed  her  lips  and  brows  and  eyes. 
Thus  all  night  do  they  devise. 
Even  till  the  morning  white. 
Then  Aucassin  wedded  her. 
Made  her  Lady  of  Biaucaire. 
Many  years  abode  they  there. 
Many  years  in  shade  or  sun. 
In  great  gladness  and  delight. 
Ne'er  hath  Aucassin  regret 
Nor  his  lady  Nicolete. 
Now  my  story  all  is  done, 
Said  and  sung  ! '  "  i 

This  ancient  ballad  of  true  love  was  sung 
so  tenderly,  so  softly,  that  the  fish  took  no 
alarm,  and  Pierre  made  no  remonstrance ; 
but  when  it  was  quite  finished,  a  voice 
spoke  in  admiration  from  among  the  low 
trees  behind  her. 

"  Madelon,  little  daughter  of  Pierre,  thou 
giv'st  the  birds  joy  with  thy  forest  tale  of 
love.     How  camest  thou  by  the  old  tale  ?  " 

She  turned  about  with  the  look  of  the 
fawns  at  sight  of  her.     The  flush   of  the 

*  From  the  translation  of  Andrew  Lang. 


The  Devil's  Plough  189 

early  morning  sky  crossed  her  face  upon 
being  discovered  by  Father  Gaston,  stand- 
ing there  unheard,  unobserved,  until  he 
spoke.  Madelon  made  a  deep  reverence 
before  him.  "  'Twas  the  beautiful  Com- 
tesse  de  Luneville  taught  me  the  tale,  holy 
father ;  and  I  read  it  in  her  book,  after 
the  lessons  in  the  art  of  reading,  you  so 
graciously  had  given  me,  prepared  the  way 
to  my  understanding." 

He  came  out  from  among  the  trees,  lead- 
ing a  small  mare  by  the  bridle.  "  Thou 
appeared  a  crowned  queen  of  nature  for 
the  moment,  little  one,  beside  the  river 
brink." 

She  looked  down  bashfully.  "Yes,  Fa- 
ther Gaston.  It  doth  give  me  great  joy 
to  sing." 

"  Thou  art  a  delicate  flower,  little  one. 
If  'twere  not  for  that,  the  stage  might  claim 
thee.  Feel'st  thou  no  inclination  to  act 
and  sing  before  many  faces  staring  at  thee, 
and  ears  —  sometimes  very  long  ones  — 
inclined  thy  way  ?  " 

"It  hath  been  in  my  thoughts,  holy 
father,   to    do   so,  but  my  courage   is    not 


190  The  Devil's  Plough 

enough.  'Tis  joy  to  sing  into  the  river's 
shadows  or" — she  hesitated  —  "to  you, 
but  would  the  people  understand  ?  Only 
the  trees  and  flowers  —  and  you  —  under- 
stand; not  even  my  little  father  — "  She 
paused  and  took  oflF  the  wreath. 

"  Keep  the  wreath  so,  little  one.  It 
giveth  me  great  pleasure  to  see  thee  beauti- 
ful as  are  the  trees  and  sky  and  flowers. 
Pierre  must  be  not  far  distant.  No  doubt 
he  maketh  merry  with  the  fish." 

"  Yes,  Father  Gaston.  Little  father  is  at 
the  sport  just  around  the  bend.  His  head 
can  be  plainly  seen  whenever  he  catcheth 
a  fish.     There  !     See  him  now  !  " 

"  'Tis  likely  good  Pierre  hath  brought 
food  to  strengthen  him  for  the  sport.  He 
is  a  generous  soul ;  we  will  lead  little  Marie 
to  drink,  then  go  beg  something  of  him 
wherewith  to  break  my  fast." 

"  Permit  me  to  do  you  the  service.  Father 
Gaston.  'Twill  give  me  joy  to  do  even 
so  little  a  thing  for  you,  who  are  so  good 
and  kind  to  every  one."  Madelon  took 
the  mare's  bridle  in  one  hand. 

"  Well,  well,  little  one,"  said  Father  Gas- 


The  Devil's  Plough  191 

ton,  looking  kindly  at  her,  "  if  'twill  give 
thee  pleasure,  take  Marie  to  drink." 

He  sat  down  on  the  spreading  surface 
roots  of  a  tree  near  by,  with  a  sigh  of 
physical  content,  watching  the  graceful  girl 
and  the  mare  while  the  animal  thirstily 
drank  from  the  stream.  Resting  easily  on 
one  arm.  Father  Gaston  repeated,  thought- 
folly : 

**  *  Many  years  abode  they  there. 
Many  years  in  shade  or  sun. 
In  great  gladness  and  delight.' 

'Twas  the  Comtesse  de  Luneville  taught 
thee  those  words,  thou  saidst,  Madelon  ? " 

"Yes,  holy  father.  'Twas  the  great  lady 
who  is  so  good  to  me.  I  go  often  to  sell 
her  flowers,  and  she  talks  kindly  to  me," 
answered  the  girl,  looking  back  at  him. 

"  She  is  both  a  good  and  kind  lady  to 
thee  and  others.     Hast  thou  seen  her  lately  ? 

**  *  Many  years  in  shade  or  sun, 
In  great  gladness  and  delight.' 

Those  words  take  hold  of  the  memory, 
little  one.  Hast  thou  seen  her  lately,  to 
learn  with  her  more  beautiful  verses  ?  " 


192  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  The  countess,  holy  father  ?  —  Whoa, 
Marie  !  thou  art  too  eager,  —  thou  drink'st 
more  in  the  manner  of  a  pig  than  a  mare. 
Hold  up  thy  pretty  head,  and  Madelon 
will  crown  thee  with  her  wreath  in  reward 
for  thy  obedience."  Her  entire  attention 
for  the  moment  was  given  to  the  mare. 

Father  Gaston  leaned  his  weight  far  back 
upon  both  elbows  and  looked  up  at  the  sky 
cut  into  intricate  blue  figures,  by  the  sway- 
ing leaves  and  boughs  above  him,  repeat- 
ing again,  in  his  mellowest  tones : 

"  *  Many  years  in  shade  or  sun,  — 
In  great  gladness  and  delight.  * 

*Tis  a  bright  picture  the  countess  showeth 
thee,  little  one. 

"  *  In  great  gladness  and  delight. 
In  great  gladness  and  delight.' 

The  countess  must  be  happy,  Madelon,  to 
read  thee  verse  of  that  quality.  I  had  not 
heard  the  old  tale  since  my  mother  read 
it  in  my  presence,  long  ago.  Thou  say'st 
the  countess  is  a  happy  lady,  Madelon, 
being  of  good  health  and  great  fortune  ? " 


The  Devil's  Plough  193 

"  No,  holy  father.  The  lady  seemeth 
not  to  me  of  gay  spirits.  She  hath  told 
me  no  woman  can  be  happy  when  Love 
sitteth  far  off  and  frowns.  Those  were 
her  words.  Their  full  meaning  I  know 
not,  but  'tis  true  the  countess  is  often  sad." 

"  If  Love  frowned  upon  thee,  little  one, 
what  wouldst  thou  do  ?  "  he  asked,  absently. 

She  shook  her  head  in  doubt,  leading  the 
mare  carefully  back  up  the  bank.  "It  is 
not  for  me  to  say.  Father  Gaston.  Your 
spiritual  counsel  would  speak  the  best 
course  to  the  lady's  mind.  I  have  seen 
that,  when  Love  smiles,  the  world  doth 
laugh  and  glitter  as  if  many  suns  were 
shining  instead  of  one.  But  I  know  not 
myself." 

"  Hast  thou  not  loved,  little  one? " 

Again  the  morning  flush  tinted  her  cheeks. 
"  My  little  father,  yes;  my  flowers,  yes;  the 
trees  and  the  sky,  yes ;  I  love  thee.  Father 
Gaston,  —  yes,  all  good  folks  do;  but  Jean, 
the  baker,  who  would  wed  me,  —  no,  father, 
no ! "  —  her  face  clouded  like  a  child's,  — 
"  and  marriage  with  him  would  make  me 
sad  like  the  countess ;  I  know  it.** 


194  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Then  thou  shalt  not  wed  him,  little  one. 
No  one  shall  make  thee  unhappy.  'Tis 
possible  that  God  meant  every  man  and 
woman  whom  he  sends  into  this  world  to 
have  a  mate  like  the  birds.  Think'st  thou 
so,  Httle  one  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head.  "  'Tis  what 
maketh  the  nightingale  sing,  holy  father, — 
the  love  for  his  mate.  The  falconer  hath 
told  me  so.  Father  Gaston,  it  hath  been 
sometimes  in  my  thoughts  that  my  betrothal 
will  be  to  the  Holy  Church  of  Christ.  The 
Virgin  hath  appeared  to  me  and  beckoned." 
The  girl's  lower  lip  quivered  and  the  colour 
of  her  eyes  strengthened. 

A  look  of  grief  crossed  the  priest's  face. 
"No,  no,  Madelon,"  he  commanded. 
"  No,  I  say.  Thou  art  not  for  the  sacri- 
fice. Thy  soul  turns  to  beauty,  child. 
'Twould  suffer  in  conventual  life.  There 
are  enough  without  thee." 

She  evinced  her  surprise  in  her  look. 
"  But,  holy  father,  'twas  in  my  thoughts 
that  you  would  bid  me  wed  the  Church." 

"  The  life  is  well  for  those  having  no  eyes 
for  all   God    hath   put   outside   conventual 


The  Devil's  Plough  195 

walls.  Child,  I  tell  thee,  'twould  be  thy 
certain  death.  When,  at  thy  age,  they  took 
me  from  the  woods,  the  sky,  the  trees,  the 
very  heart  of  God,  and  placed  me  at  the 
studies  of  the  priest,  it  broke  my  heart. 
Something  snapped  within  my  soul.  There 
was  no  help  for  it,  and  now  it  is  my  hope  to 
do  my  duty  by  my  vows ;  but  the  sky  calls, 
child,  the  music  calls,  life  calls.  God  made 
it  all,  not  Satan,  as  some  would  have  it. 
Take  counsel  of  thine  own  nature,  little  one, 
before  it  is  too  late." 

Had  the  river  turned  in  its  course  and 
dashed  upon  her,  the  maiden  could  not 
have  been  more  seized  with  wonder  and 
amazement.  Her  pretty  lips  hung  apart; 
her  eyes  stretched  aghast. 

"  This  once  in  all  my  life  I  speak,  child. 
'Tis  to  save  another  from  the  experience 
of  mine  own  soul." 

"  'Tis  something  like  the  countess  hath 
said  to  me.  'Tis  in  her  thoughts  that  God 
hath  made  the  love  of  the  nightingale  and 
the  man."  Madelon's  body  shook  ner- 
vously ;  this  was  to  her  a  strange  revela- 
tion. 


196  The  Devil's  Plough 

"In  all  this  world,  little  one,  thy  father  is 
the  only  one  in  whom  I  can  safely  put  my 
human  faith.  I  say  these  things  to  thee  as 
if  thou  wert  mine  own  daughter,  —  first  for 
thine  own  sake,  but  more  for  the  good 
Pierre."  His  face  was  deeply  troubled. 
"  I  trust  thee  now,  Madelon.  These  words 
are  buried  deep  between  us.  Say  no  more, 
but  take  close  counsel  of  thine  own  nature, 
and  if  then  thou  still  hearest  the  call,  obey. 
Thou  say'st  thou  hast  learned  the  pretty 
verses  from  the  countess  but  lately  ?  " 

Madelon  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  No, 
holy  father.  'Twas  long  before  the  lady 
was  seized  with  her  late  discomfort  of  body. 
For  many  days  I  had  not  seen  her  until 
yesterday,  when  she  sent  for  me  and  my 
flowers,  being  somewhat  recovered  once 
more." 

"  Comtesse  de  Luneville  hath  been  ill, 
Madelon?  Make  haste  to  answer."  He 
leaned  toward  her  on  the  grass  command- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,  holy  father.  The  lady  hath  been 
sorely  ill  these  three  weeks  past.  The 
barber  hath  bled  her  of  much  illness,  but 


The  Devil's  Plough  197 

some  still  remams.  Her  friends  scarce 
knew  her  when  she  once  again  appeared  at  a 
grand  fete.  'Twere  better  would  she  stay  in 
bed,  but  the  countess  hath  no  heed  to  other 
than  her  own  will.  'Tis  like  she  will  appear 
to-morrow  eve  at  the  fete  set  by  Made- 
moiselle Ninon  at  her  own  house,  where 
she  gives  promise  to  appear,  having  been 
secretly  away  since  before  the  moop  was 
new." 

The  mare,  cropping  grass  near  by,  neighed 
and  looked  around.  Pierre  was  heard  call- 
ing, "  Madelon  !  Madelon  !  Come !  My 
string  is  full  to  the  knot !     Come  !  '* 

The  girl  answered  by  halloing  through 
her  hands,  then  she  turned  back  to  Father 
Gaston,  who  sat  there  on  the  grass,  burying 
his  face  on  his  folded  arms  laid  across  his 
knees  :  "  Holy  father,  if  you  will  condescend 
to  break  your  fast  with  those  so  lowly,  we  do 
beseech  you  to  take  bread  with  us  under  the 
high  tree  yonder.'' 

He  looked  up  absently,  nodding  a  me- 
chanical assent.  His  eyes  looked  suddenly 
parched,  as  if  the  sun  were  scorching  the 
whites  of  them.     "  Madelon,  little  one, "  — 


198  The  Devil's  Plough 

he  spoke  slowly,  — "  thou  said'st  she  wills 
to  attend  Ninon's  fete  to-morrow  eve  ? " 

"Yes,  holy  father."  The  girl  took 
Marie's  bridle  over  one  arm. 

"Thou  said'st  the  countess  was  suffering 
in  mind  and  body  ?  " 

"Yes,  holy  father."  She  stood  looking 
at  him,  and  the  sound  of  Marie  cropping 
grass  was  distinct  to  their  ears.  His  head 
fell  forward  on  his  breast  meditatively.  She 
waited  patiently  beside  him. 

When  he  finally  looked  up,  Father  Gas- 
ton passed  one  hand  over  his  eyes,  making 
the  gesture,  indicative  of  mental  fatigue, 
grown  familiar  to  him  of  late.  "  Little  one, 
wilt  thou  pray  for  me  to-night  ?  " 

The  sadness  in  his  voice  brought  quick 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Her  fresh  lips  quivered. 
"  Thou  art  always  in  my  morning  and  even- 
ing prayers.  Father  Gaston,"  she  replied. 

"  Put  thy  white  soul  between  mine  and 
Satan,  little  one ;  then  'tis  possible  my  head 
will  not  whirl  and  sing  and  play  me  false." 

The  man  looked  so  helpless  that  the  girl's 
mother  heart  awoke,  and  led  her  to  touch 
his  cassock  pityingly.    "  Father  Gaston,  thou 


The  Devil's  Plough  199 

art  not  well  ?  Come,  and  Madelon  will  give 
thee  food  and  drink  and  tender  care.  Thou 
giv'st  thy  life  for  the  poor  of  the  city,  and 
thou  hast  no  single  soul  to  give  thee  aught 
of  tenderness." 

"  Not  a  single  human  heart,  Madelon, 
but  thine  and  thy  father's."  He  stood  up 
feebly.  "  Madelon,  forget  not  thou  art  to 
say  an  additional  prayer  for  me  to-night." 

"  I  remember,  holy  father."  She  clasped 
her  hands,  then  suddenly  knelt  before  him 
on  the  grass.  "  Holy  Mother,  I  do  be- 
seech thee  to  hold  close  to  thy  tender  heart 
thy  worthy  son,  who  needs  thy  mother's 
care." 

Hot  tears  wet  his  eyes  at  sight  of  the 
devout  form  kneeling  there  in  prayer  for 
him.  "  I  thank  thee,  little  one.  May  the 
blessed  Virgin  keep  thee  also  in  divine  em- 
brace," 

She  arose,  and  together,  leading  Marie 
between  them,  they  went  to  meet  Pierre, 
who  stood  beneath  the  great  tree,  calling 
his  little  daughter. 


Chapter  XII 

IT  was  the  night  of  Ninon  de  L'Enclos's 
fete  champetre.  This  vivacious  lady  had 
selected  for  her  rural  abode  an  old  manor- 
house  and  grounds  situated  beyond  the  edge 
of  Paris,  midway  between  the  city  and  that 
part  of  the  country  ultimately  selected  by  the 
Grand  Monarch  for  the  site  of  his  favour- 
ite residence.  This  country-place,  already 
possessed  of  remarkable  native  attractions, 
Ninon  had  purchased,  then  perfected  by 
every  artificial  means  at  the  command  of 
money  and  excellent  taste,  for  the  lady's 
refinement  of  taste  greatly  exceeded  her  re- 
finement of  morals. 

Invitations  had  been  delivered  by  lackeys 
to  all  fashionable  Paris,  bidding  it  welcome 
to  this  grand  fete,  at  which  the  hostess 
was  to  make  her  reappearance  after  a  mys- 
terious absence  of  a   month,  during  which 


The  Devil's  Plough  aoi 

time  no  clew  to  her  whereabouts  was  dis- 
covered. 

Since  De  Sevigne's  death,  she  had  taken 
no  lover  patent  to  the  eye,  but  the  tongues 
of  Paris  had  not  run  dry  of  gossip  concern- 
ing the  probabilities  surrounding  her  retire- 
ment. The  most  popular  surmise  placed 
her  with  the  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  in  his 
Norman  ancestral  home,  because  coincident 
with  Ninon's  disappearance  came  that  gen- 
tleman's, after  he  was  for  one  moment 
plainly  seen  before  the  tavern  of  La  Carotte 
Rouge  by  four  gentlemen  of  France  and 
followed  by  them  unsuccessfully.  To  Paris- 
ians it  seemed  not  altogether  unHkely  that, 
where  one  was  found,  the  other  would  be 
discovered ;  not  owing  to  any  particular  af- 
finity existing  between  the  two  absentees, — 
as  far  as  was  known,  —  but  on  general  prin- 
ciple ;  a  convenient  abstraction  upon  which 
to  hang  scandal  in  any  age  or  location. 

These  interesting  probabilities,  taken  to- 
gether with  the  invariable  fascination  sur- 
rounding any  entertainment  offered  by 
Ninon,  easily  enticed,  with  but  few  excep- 
tions, the  court  world  of  the  Spanish  queen 


202  The  Devil's  Plough 

regent  and  the  literary  circle  of  Rambouillet. 
The  exceptions  intimated  were  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Rambouillet  family  and  their 
closest  adherents,  for  Madame  Rambouillet 
was  at  this  time  venturing  to  lift  her  respect- 
able skirts  as  far  away  as  was  convenient 
from  Ninon  and  her  special  coterie  of  free- 
thinkers. 

The  moon  was  tardy  that  night,  but  even 
so  the  assembling  guests  found  widespread- 
ing  grounds  attractively  illuminated  by  lamps 
from  China,  as  was  the  house,  in  whose 
ballroom  the  musicians  made  ready  for  the 
dance.  High  refreshment  buffets,  standing 
in  a  large  room  at  one  side  of  the  great 
gallery,  were  laden  with  agreeable  restora- 
tives for  the  impatient  mind.  At  one  buf- 
fet, behind  the  balustrade  railing  them  off 
from  the  guests,  attendants  served  through- 
out the  evening  all  of  the  most  desirable 
vintages  of  wine;  at  the  other,  various 
liqueurs  and  cordials.  In  an  adjoining 
room,  tiers  of  shelves  hung  against  the  fres- 
coed walls,  and  upon  these  were  ranged  bowls 
heaped  with  pomegranates,  lemons,  oranges, 
and  different  sweets.     Card-tables  stood  in 


The  Devil's  Plough  203 

every  available  position  about  the  gorgeously 
appointed  house,  and  appeared  to  offer  more 
immediate  attractions  to  the  arriving  guests 
than  did  even  the  Venus  boats  on  the  garden 
lake,  or  promenades  through  the  circuitous 
alleys  bordered  with  blooming  roses  and 
other  delicious  vegetation. 

The  hour  grew  well  on  toward  ten 
o'clock  ;  the  guests  appeared  to  be  hilari- 
ously entertained  without  the  direct  assist- 
ance of  their  hostess,  whose  very  absence 
lent  evident  piquancy  to  their  pleasure. 
Dukes  peered  under  sofas  and  around  sud- 
den corners  in  playful  search  for  gay  Ninon. 
Countesses  peeped  up  the  chimneys  and  into 
valuable  vases  in  the  same  jovial  pursuit, 
but  without  reward ;  the  lady  came  not. 
Just  beyond  the  ballroom,  opening  into  the 
great  gallery,  a  room,  set  aside  especially 
for  cards,  made  no  complaint  of  dulness. 
There  smoking  was  permitted  by  the  pro- 
gressive Ninon  ;  long  pipes  and  silver  to- 
bacco-boxes were  laid  out  abundantly  on  a 
table  designed  for  that  purpose. 

"  'Tis  possible  Ninon  hath  gone  up  in 
smoke,   having   tried    one  of  these   Italian 


204  The  Devil's  Plough 

pipes,"  remarked  the  Due  d'Enghien  to  his 
partners  at  la  prime. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  deal  next,  mon- 
sieur le  due,"  answered  Bussy  de  Rabutin. 
"  The  lady's  fascinating  embonpoint  would 
surely  restore  her  to  us  of  its  own  weight, 
if  that  be  so." 

A  pile  of  gold  pieces  was  heaped  upon 
the  table.  De  Rabutin  brushed  a  louis  d'or 
aside  with  the  lace  of  his  sleeve.  "  I  have 
the  honour  to  beg  indulgence,  gentlemen. 
Have  I  your  pardon  ^ "  he  asked  at  once. 
The  others  bowed  assentingly.  "  Monsieur 
de  Bouteville,"  continued  De  Rabutin,  "  if 
thy  face  is  any  reflection,  thou  hold'st  the 
flush." 

"  My  colour  hath  the  heat  of  my  feelings 
toward  the  coward  De  Chatillon.  'Twill 
not  go  down  until  he  tries  my  thrust." 

"  Have  I  not  assured  thee  that  thy  thrust 
excels  mine,  Henri  ? "  spoke  Saint-Evre- 
mond,  good-naturedly.  "  Why  not  call  my 
assurance  even  with  De  Chatillon's  denial 
and  so  cool  oflF  thy  feelings  ?  Deal,  Du 
Brion." 

"  Not   till  my   blood  runs  white,  Saint- 


The  Devil's  Plough  205 

Evremond.  The  greatest  coward  in  France 
must  yet  meet  his  just  reward  —  Fifteen 
—  I  hold  the  ace  !  "  De  Bouteville's  eyes 
narrowed  with  greed  of  the  game. 

"  If  Ninon,  as  is  reported,  hath  spent 
three  weeks  in  Normandy  with  De  Chatil- 
lon,  'tis  possible  she  hath  by  now  put  her 
own  courage  somewhat  into  him,  and  he'll 
appear  to-night,  wearing  the  hat,"  observed 
De  Trouville.  "  Ah,  'tis  my  flush  !  Pay, 
gentlemen." 

Each  player  made  on  a  small  card  a  note 
of  his  losses  to  De  Trouville,  and  Saint- 
Evremond  took  the  deal,  changing  the  sub- 
ject at  a  glance  from  Du  Brion. 

"The  music  is  new  we  hear  to-night. 
What  is  the  dance  now  going  on  ?  " 

"  'Tis  the  courante  danced  by  Prince 
Louis  before  the  ballet  at  the  last  court  ball. 
The  prince  promiseth  well  with  his  legs,  no 
matter  what  his  wits  may  come  to.  'Twas 
a  spectacle  to  see  the  royal  lad  as  a  god,  sur- 
rounded by  the  court,"  answered  De  Rabu- 
tin.  "  On  the  word  of  a  Jesuit,  I've  lost 
again  !  Peste  upon  that  quinola  !  'Twas  all 
the  hand  held  for  me." 


2o6  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  if  thou  but  held  the  cardinal's  cunning 
at  cards,  the  quinola  would  have  brought 
thee  a  flush,"  laughed  De  Bouteville.  They 
all  exchanged  speaking  glances.  "  Our  car- 
dinal hath  an  invariable  hand,  —  knave  of 
hearts,  ace,  seven,  and  six  of  clubs.  Thou 
must  learn  the  trick  of  it.  That  dance-tune 
speaketh  to  my  feet,  —  I  would  learn  its 
fashion.  Why  not  observe  the  operation  of 
it?     The  game  will  hold." 

"  I'll  join  thee,"  said  D'Enghien,  "  at  the 
next  flush." 

"And  I,"  echoed  De  Rabutin.  "As 
well  be  hanged  to  a  tree  as  hang  behind  the 
fashion." 

After  the  next  round  these  three  moved 
oflF  together,  and  stood  in  the  ballroom  door, 
in  full  view  of  the  dancers. 

"  Comtesse  de  Luneville  hath  not  even 
her  usual  colour,  De  Bouteville,"  said  De 
Rabutin.  "  Dieu  s'en  attriste  !  Her  patches 
become  not  such  pallor." 

"  A  lady  with  a  husband  in  the  Bastille, 
and  a  lover  on  the  run  from  my  sword,  hath 
good  reason  to  look  pale."  De  Bouteville's 
tone  in  answering  was  not  pleasant. 


The  Devil's  Plough  207 

"  She  plainly  hath  not  studied  well  the 
art  of  wearing  colour;  but  if  she  hath  a 
wrinkle,  she  also  hath  the  wit  to  wear  it  on 
the  sole  of  her  foot  as  Ninon  recommendeth 
a  woman  should  do.  The  countess  keeps 
her  youth  most  becomingly." 

"  She  is  about  to  dance  the  courante  with 
Comte  de  Joinville.  Observe  closely,  —  we 
may  so  learn  the  steps." 

De  Rabutin  leaned  forward,  watching  with 
great  interest  the  three  couples  now  ranging 
opposite  each  other  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  surrounded  by  eager  observers. 

"  Comte  de  Joinville  leads  her  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room." 

"  She  hath  a  graceful  body." 

"  The  others  do  the  same." 

"  The  partners  flirt.  Mademoiselle  du 
Bosc's  new  fan  from  Spain  doth  well  become 
her  eyes." 

"  The  gentlemen  grow  desperate.  The 
demoiselles  refuse  them.  The  countess 
turneth  her  back." 

"  A  man  would  go  to  the  Bastille  for  a 
kiss  above  her  shoulder-blades  !  Hein,  De 
Bouteville  ? " 


2o8  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Now  the  gentlemen  go  together  to  beg 
favour." 

"  'Tis  no  soldier's  dance." 

"  Now  they  yield,  bow,  curtsey,  and  — 
note  the  step.    'Tis  not  unlike  the  gavotte." 

The  three  passed  their  observations  rap- 
idly. Behind  them  the  gaming  became 
audibly  excited ;  the  lights  in  the  ballroom 
flared  upon  the  brilliantly  costumed  dancers, 
and  the  gay  chatter  of  voices  made  a  hum 
throughout  the  entire  house. 

A  door  opposite  to  the  position  taken  by 
De  Bouteville  and  his  friends  led  into  a  cor- 
ridor. At  this  moment  there  appeared  a 
gentleman,  carrying  a  plumed  hat  under  one 
arm,  coming  along  the  corridor  alone.  He 
entered  at  the  doorway,  where  he  stood  just 
inside  the  room,  watching  the  dancers,  but 
apparently  seeing  nothing  else. 

D'Enghien  pulled  De  Bouteville  by  the 
sleeve.  "'The  dead  hath  come  to  life, — 
there  is  De  Chatillon !  He  carries  a  face 
less  lively  than  was  his  former  habit." 

"  The  coward  rat !  "  muttered  De  Boute- 
ville, through  his  teeth.  "  I'll  have  at  him 
yet!" 


The  Devil's  Plough  209 

"  'Tis  plain  he  hath  come  for  that  very 
purpose,  else  why  doth  he  carry  thy  hat  ? 
'Tis  all  a  mystery.  De  Chatillon  never 
before  held  the  reputation  of  a  coward," 
remarked  D'Enghien. 

De  Bouteville  took  a  step  forward  toward 
his  enemy,  but  the  duke  laid  a  detaining 
hand  on  his. 

"  I  do  beg  of  thee,  chevalier,  let  us  lie 
in  wait,  and  watch  the  movements  of  thy 
mouse,  —  a  play  is  not  more  entertaining." 

"  He  may  again  escape  me." 

"  'Tis  not  like.  De  Chatillon  comes  with 
some  set  purpose  toward  thee,  if  my  judg- 
ment of  men  be  not  at  fault." 

They  drew  somewhat  back  into  the  card- 
room,  continuing  to  observe  closely  De 
Chatillon,  who,  the  moment  the  dance  was 
finished,  walked  slowly  across  the  floor  with 
some  intention. 

It  was  evident  that  De  Bouteville's  esti- 
mate of  his  courage  had  by  now  gained 
popular  acceptance,  for,  although  his  bows, 
bestowed  upon  the  lively  groups  he  passed, 
met  lukewarm  courtesy,  few  advanced  to 
welcome  him  back,  and  those  who  did  were 


2IO  The  Devil's  Plough 

stimulated  by  curiosity  relating  to  Ninon's 
disappearance. 

The  distinct  sensation  he  was  making 
seemed  in  no  wise  to  affect  him.  He  passed 
along  in  the  direction  of  the  dancers.  Com- 
tesse  de  Luneville  had  left  the  floor,  and 
now  stood  aside,  explaining  the  new  dance 
to  the  inquiring  group  surrounding  her. 
The  ladies  lifted  their  fans  to  downcast  eye- 
lashes as  De  Chatillon  passed  them  by ;  the 
gentlemen  frequently  averted  their  glances, 
but  they  whispered  among  each  other  after 
he  was  out  of  hearing : 

"  De  Chatillon  !  " 

"  'Tis  certain  he  was  with  Ninon." 

"  They  return  at  the  same  moment." 

"  Can  you  hear  her  coming  ?  " 

"  Four  weeks  is  a  long  passion  for  Ni- 
non ! " 

"  Observe  Comtesse  de  Luneville  if  he 
ventures  to  speak  with  her." 

"  'Tis  said  De  Bouteville  hath  called  him 
out  more  on  account  of  her  favour  than  his 
thrust,  if  the  truth  were  known." 

"  No  matter  for  the  cause.  A  gentleman 
who  refuseth  a  challenge  nominates  himself 


The  Devil's  Plough  211 

a  coward  no  longer  fit  for  association  with 
other  gentlemen  of  France." 

"  But  here  she  comes  !  'Tis  Ninon,  as  I 
told  thee,  —  on  his  very  heels  !  'Tis  brazen ! 
Music  accompanieth  her  !  " 

Through  the  same  door  De  Chatillon  had 
entered  came  Ninon  de  L'Enclos,  in  the 
full  recognition  —  exceedingly  entertaining 
to  her  —  of  the  sensation  she  had  success- 
fully created  in  Paris.  Her  blond  curls 
fell  coquettishly  toward  her  eyes  when  she 
inclined  her  fair  head  slightly  to  one  side  in 
sympathy  with  the  saraband  she  was  danc- 
ing. Her  purple  velvet  costume,  orna- 
mented with  a  profusion  of  point  lace,  swept 
its  long  trail  as  would  a  peacock  its  tail  were 
the  feathers  of  it  hung  similarly.  In  her 
hands  she  carried  a  guitar,  upon  which  she 
accompanied  the  saraband  steps  she  took, 
with  a  slow,  sensuous  saraband  melody  of 
Spanish  origin  in  pulsing  three-four  time. 
She  bestowed  no  recognition  upon  her  audi- 
ence, but  continued  to  fascinate  them  by 
the  artistry  of  her  poses. 

Suddenly  she  changed  the  time  and  tune 
of  her  music,  ceased  dancing,  and,  standing 


212  The  Devil's  Plough 

there,  sang  to  gay  ballet  music,  her  body 
swaying  with  the  accent, 

**  Taisez-vous,  flots  impetueux. 
Vents,  devenez  respectueux. 
La  mere  des  amours  sort  de  ma  vaste  empire," 

ending  with  a  long  peal  of  laughter  famous 
for  its  musical  quality. 

"My  friends,  I  fail  not  to  keep  my 
promise.  Ninon  is  here !  Where  hath 
Ninon  spent  her  time  of  rest  from  your 
society  ?  Ha,  ha !  that  is  Ninon's  secret. 
I  have  brought  from  my  travels  a  new 
diversion  for  you.  It  comes  later.  But 
the  absence  hath  endeared  you  to  me.  I 
embrace  you  all  separately.  Come,  bid  me 
welcome."  After  this  impromptu  she  held 
out  both  arms,  and  her  guests  flocked  to 
them. 

From  this  moment  the  gaiety  increased. 
The  allemande  was  danced  by  couples  lined 
up  the  entire  length  of  the  room,  Ninon 
leading  ofi^  with  the  Due  d'Enghien. 

When  Ninon  made  her  sensational  en- 
trance, Chevalier  de  Chatillon  was  making 
his    way    toward    Comtesse    de    Luneville, 


The  Devil's  Plough  213 

standing  in  the  heart  of  a  gay  circle,  too 
absorbed  in  description  of  the  dance  for  her 
attention  to  wander  in  any  direction  unless 
it  were  particularly  attracted.  De  Chatillon 
paused  at  the  sound  of  Ninon's  music  and 
half  turned  about. 

The  countess  and  those  near  her  ceased 
all  conversation  at  sight  of  their  hostess. 
Heloise  looked  first  at  Ninon,  then  her 
eyes,  in  wandering  back  over  the  heads  in 
front  of  her,  fell  upon  De  Chatillon's  eyes, 
full  upon  her.  A  quiver  ran  through  her 
body.  She  raised  her  fan  to  her  mouth  and 
coughed  slightly.  No  one  observed  her, 
the  general  attention  being  centred  upon 
Ninon ;  she  stood  rigidly  still,  her  eyes  held 
by  De  Chatillon's.  Neither  gave  outward 
sign  of  recognition,  but  as  he  advanced  to- 
ward her  both  knew  some  crisis  loomed 
before  them,  and  both  begged  of  time  a 
moment's  respite. 

Under  cover  of  the  general  excitement  he 
came  close  up  to  her,  unobserved  by  the 
others,  who,  in  their  eager  curiosity  at  sight 
of  Ninon,  pressed  forward,  leaving  the  count- 
ess   standing    back    alone.      Without    the 


214  The  Devil's  Plough 

then  customary  exchange  of  courtesies,  these 
two  human  beings  spoke  from  their  impulses. 

"  Heloise,  I  have  returned  to  thee,"  he 
said,  simply. 

"  Paul !  Paul !  I  have  been  lonely."  The 
sorrow  in  her  voice  choked  his  own  words. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  give  thee  reasons 
and  to  take  the  consequences  of  my  un- 
worthy conduct.  My  love  for  thee  and  the 
poor  of  Paris  is  all  the  good  of  which  I 
can  boast  in  a  lifetime.  Love  is  a  crown 
gemmed  with  immortal  stars,  which,  once 
worn  upon  a  man's  head,  giveth  such  radi- 
ance to  his  life  that  even  Heaven's  wrath 
cannot  cast  him  out  into  black  night  again." 

She  replied  from  between  her  teeth,  flirt- 
ing her  fan  before  her  face :  "  We  are  ob- 
served. Mademoiselle  du  Bosc  hath  her 
cat  eye  upon  us.  *Tis  so,  then,  chevalier ; 
you  were  called  away  from  Paris  on  impor- 
tant matters,  and  have  now  returned  to  take 
the  public  into  your  confidence  ?  " 

"  If  madame  la  comtesse  can  be  counted 
part  of  so  uncertain  a  thing  as  public  opin- 
ion." He  bowed  low  before  her,  adding,  in- 
distinctly, "  Go  out  into  the  garden.     By  the 


The  Devil's  Plough  215 

statue  of  the  fawn  thou  must  determine  my 
future."  Then,  louder,  "  There  are  some 
reasons  a  man  hath  for  his  conduct  that 
even  Paris,  with  all  her  wit,  cannot  read 
aright.  Mademoiselle  Ninon  is  more 
charming  than  ever,  is  she  not,  countess? 
We  must  welcome  her  back.  Shall  we 
not  go  forward  with   the  others  ? " 

"Yes,  monsieur;  or  perhaps  I  had  best 
go  alone,  while  you,  with  exceeding  courtesy, 
may  call  an  attendant  and  request  a  light 
scarf  or  cloak  for  my  shoulders.  You  have 
some  tale  of  the  Italian  Fawn  to  relate  ? 
That  will  be  charming.  Farewell  —  during 
a  passing  moment."  They  looked  full  into 
each  other's  eyes  again.  He  did  her  deep 
reverence,  then  turned  and,  by  a  small  door 
adjacent,  went  out  into  the  grand  gallery. 
The  countess  had,  during  those  few  con- 
ventional moments,  regained  somewhat  of 
her  native  poise.  Now,  dressed  in  trailing 
white  satin  embroidered  in  stars  and  crescent 
moons  of  gold,  she  greatly  resembled  some 
early  goddess  of  Charm  moving  dreamily 
amidst  modern  mortals,  without  active  con- 
sciousness of  their  existence. 


2i6  The  Devil's  Plough 

Some  one  spoke  at  her  side.  "  Madame 
la  comtesse  will  give  me  the  supreme  hon- 
our of  dancing  with  her  this  evening  ?  " 

She  looked  up  and  saw  De  Bouteville 
bowing.  "You  do  me  great  honour,  chev- 
alier, but  it  doth  seem  impossible  that,  with 
this  cough  hanging  by  me,  I  can  remain  a 
great  while  to  dance."  She  coughed  slightly. 
"  Perhaps  the  noble  chevalier  will  kindly 
conduct  me  to  greet  Mademoiselle  Ninon  ?" 

"With  utmost  felicity,  madame  la  com- 
tesse." 

Advancing  together,  De  Bouteville  re- 
marked, with  a  glance  around  the  room, 
"  Madame  la  comtesse  may  have  observed 
that  Chevalier  de  Chatillon  returns  at  the 
same  moment  as   Ninon  ?     'Tis  strange  !  " 

Heloise  blazed  her  eyes  at  him.  "  Mon- 
sieur de  Bouteville  hath  perhaps  read  La 
Fontaine's  fables  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  sword  is  more  my  familiar  than  the 
game   of  letters,   countess,"   he   confessed. 

"If  monsieur  can  take  the  time,  'tis  pos- 
sible he  might  find  amusement  in  his  own 
picture  La  Fontaine  hath  drawn  so  clearly 
in  letters.     I  must  beg  Monsieur  de  Boute- 


The  Devil's  Plough  217 

vllle  to  excuse  me.  My  late  indisposition 
hath  left  me  unequal  to  the  pleasures  of  this 
evening.  Farewell,  Monsieur  de  Boute- 
ville."  She  bowed  to  him,  moving  off  to- 
ward the  gallery. 

"  But  I  beg,  madame  la  comtesse ! "  he 
entreated,  hastening  after  her,  "  I  beg  to 
recall  any  words  displeasing  to  you.  The 
dance  —  'tis  to  be  the  allemande  —  I  see 
them  forming.  I  beg  of  you  take  not 
offence." 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  bid  you  farewell. 
Monsieur  de  Bouteville.  The  reputation 
of  my  friends  is  a  cloak  worn  round  my 
heart  until  it  falls  into  tatters."  She  left 
him  standing  there,  handling  his  sword  and 
fingering  one  end  of  his  long  moustaches 
in   no  sweet  humour. 


Chapter  XIII 

OUT  into  the  great  gallery,  hung  with 
souvenirs  of  Ninon's  various  affairs 
with  Cupid,  the  countess  hastened.  Toward 
the  staircase  an  attendant  came,  carrying  a 
long  silken  scarf,  which  the  lady  took  and 
arranged  about  her  shoulders  before  descend- 
ing the  marble  steps  leading  into  the  garden. 
She  stepped  out  into  a  night  deeply  shad- 
owed by  the  burning  lamps  and  the  dissi- 
pated, elderly  moon  rising  far  off  across  the 
trees. 

"  Unsympathetic  moon  !  "  she  ejaculated, 
"  thou  hast  no  pity  for  hearts.  'Tis  the 
same  face  thou  show'st  to  all,  but  many 
smile  and    many  weep    at   sight   of  thee." 

Along  the  shadowed  paths  walked  Helo- 
ise,  veiling  her  hair  from  the  dews.  Beside 
the  lake,  where  a  bower  of  shrubbery  had 
been  grown  near  a  statue  of  a  fawn,  she 
paused  and  listened.  "  Paul !  "  she  called, 
softly. 

218 


The  Devil's  Plough  219 

A  figure  stepped  out  before  her.  "  Be- 
loved, thou  hast  come  to  me  ?  "  De  Cha- 
tillon  answered,  drawing  her  back  into  the 
shrubbery.  "  Heloise,"  he  exclaimed,  "a 
woman's  lips  I  have  never  kissed  since, 
when  a  lad,  I  took  the  vows  and  my  mother 
died  to  me.  May  I  kiss  thee  once,  Helo- 
ise?" 

She  laid  both  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 
"  'Twill  do  no  wrong  to  feel  an  honest 
man's  lips,  —  that  which  I  have  never  done. 
What  vows  didst  thou  take  at  thy  mother's 
death  ? " 

"  Heloise  !  Heloise  !  I  love  thee  !  "  was 
his  only  reply. 

"  'Tis  all  I  can  give,  Paul,  until  thou 
hast  offered  some  reasonable  excuse  for  what 
appeareth  cowardice.  Where  hast  thou  been 
concealed,  and  why  ?  Of  De  Bouteville's 
sword  surely  thou  hast  no  fear.  Thine  is 
as  good."  She  drew  herself  away  from  him 
and  stood  back  where  the  rising  moon  shone 
full  upon  her.  "  I  have  searched  thee  in  all 
Paris,  even  to  the  secret  gate  which  led  me 
to  the  priest,  thy  brother,  and  almost  to  my 
death." 


220  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Heloise,  I  love  thee,  —  that  is  all  of  my 
excuse.  Life  is  empty  but  of  one  thought. 
Wilt  thou  come  with  me  to  purgatory,  and 
there  take  chance  of  whate'er  befalls  us  side 
by  side?" 

"  Paul  !  "  She  moved  closer  to  him, 
scanning  his  expression  anxiously.  "  Thou 
seem'st  to  me  so  strange  to-night !  Thy 
voice,  thy  eyes,  thy  very  mouth  do  give 
Paul  de  Chatillon  the  lie." 

The  man  drew  himself  together,  ready  to 
deliver  a  blow.  "  I  am  not  Paul  de  Chatil- 
lon.    He  died  a  year  ago." 

"Not  Paul  de  Chatillon!"  She  stepped 
away  from  him  instinctively.  "  Not  Paul ! 
Who,  then,  monsieur,  are  you  ?  " 

"The  man  you  love,  Heloise  de  Lune- 
ville.  Say  truly  to  me,  —  didst  thou  love 
Paul  de  Chatillon  a  year  ago? " 

"  Paul !  Paul !  'Tis  thy  wits  that  go 
astray.  That  hath  been  somewhat  my  fear 
when  I  have  sought  thee." 

He  caught  one  of  her  hands  roughly. 
"  Say  truly,  didst  thou  love  Paul  de  Chatil- 
lon one  year  ago  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  I  loved  thee  not  then.    'Twas 


The  Devil's  Plough  221 

after  the  battle  in  Bavaria,  when,  with  great 
fame  as  a  soldier,  thou  cam'st  to  me  and 
won  me  from  the  desolation  of  an  unloved 
wife  by  thy  noble  nature  and  words  more  of 
a  poet  than  a  soldier.  Before,  thou  con- 
cealed from  me  these  finer  parts  in  all  our 
conversation." 

"  'Twas  then  my  nature  and  my  words 
thou  learnt  to  love,  and  not  the  soldier  in 
me,  sweet .f*  Heloise,  I  love  thee!"  He 
leaned  toward  her;  a  ghostly  smile  showed 
on  his  lips  where  the  moonlight  fell  across 
his  face. 

"  Touch  me  not,  Paul."  Her  eyes  were 
alarmed,  but  her  fingers  lingered  in  his  mag- 
netic hands.  "  Thy  voice  hath  now  a  power 
it  revealed  not  in  the  days  before  Nordlin- 
gen.  All  Paris  knoweth  thee  to  be  a  greater 
man  since  then." 

"My  voice!  My  voice!"  The  man 
made  a  sorry  laugh.  "  My  voice,  beloved 
by  the  people  of  Paris  !  It  leadeth  them  ; 
it  maketh  men  and  women  to  shiver  for 
their  sins.  Could  it  not,  then,  also  lead  one 
fair  woman  in  the  direction  of  my  desires  ?  " 
He   paused  but  a  moment,  then  repeated: 


222  The  Devil's  Plough 

"*I  sleep,  but  my  heart  waketh :  it  is  the 
voice  of  my  beloved  that  knocketh,  saying, 
Open  to  me,  my  sister,  my  love,  my  dove, 
my  undefiled  :  for  my  head  is  filled  with 
dew,  and  my  locks  with  the  drops  of  the 
night.'  "  His  eyes  grew  visionary,  quoting 
Solomon ;  they  looked  above  her  head,  far 
beyond,  at  the  face  of  the  moon. 

"  Paul,  dear  heart,  thou  hast  been  ill. 
That  is  the  cause  of  thy  demeanour."  A 
deep  tenderness  filled  her  voice,  and  her 
arms  crept  up  about  his  neck.  "  Come 
with  me,  and  I  will  nurse  thee  back  to 
health." 

"  Go  with  thee  ?  With  thee  !  Yes,  to  the 
open  door  of  hell !  Come  !  Come,  Heloise, 
let  us  go  together !  But  no ;  this  is  surely 
madness  creeping  upon  me  at  the  touch  of 
thine  arms.  Sit  thee  there  upon  Ninon's 
seat,  made  for  lovers,  —  beneath  the  tree, 
there,  —  and  I  will  tell  thee  of  a  life  whose 
purpose  hath  been  ever  right,  but  whose 
conduct  hath  been  wrong.  Thou  shalt 
judge  the  man,  and  according  to  thy  ruling 
must  he  then  proceed." 

"  Come  with  me,  Paul,"  she  urged,  softly ; 


The  Devil's  Plough  223 

but  he  took  her  hands  off  of  him,  motioned 
her  to  the  seat,  then  stood  looking  at  her. 

"  *  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love  ;  behold, 
thou  art  fair ;  thou  hast  doves'  eyes,'  "  he 
quoted  melodiously.  "  *  My  beloved  spake, 
and  said  unto  me.  Rise  up,  my  love,  my 
fair  one,  and  come  away.  For  lo,  the  win- 
ter is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone.'  'Tis 
not  so,  beloved,  unless  thou  canst  make  it 
thus.  My  winter  is  but  at  its  autumn,  un- 
less thou  art  the  sun  to  melt  its  snows  and 
eternal  night. 

"There  was  a  boy,  Heloise;  he  loved 
the  earth,  the  sky,  the  beauty  of  all  things 
from  God,  as  he  would  have  loved  thee, 
sweet.  But  in  the  country,  far  to  the  north, 
where  man's  belief  hath  hardened  men's 
hearts  away  from  all  that  God  gave  of 
earthly  beauty,  in  hopes  of  finding  greater 
in  some  world  beyond,  he  was  reared  by 
parents  turned,  from  the  frivolities  of  cards 
and  paint  and  patches,  into  ascetics  fearful 
of  eternal  fires.  My  father  lost  the  greater 
portion  of  our  inheritance  at  cards  before  I 
yet  knew  life ;  then,  turning  his  back  on  ill 
luck,  he  entered  into  a  pious  marriage  with 


224  The  Devil's  Plough 

the  lady  who  became  my  mother  in  choice 
second  to  conventual  living.  My  elder 
brother  came  into  what  estate  there  was,  and 
I,  who  pled  to  be  a  soldier,  having  no  for- 
tune, must  needs  study  piety  for  a  livelihood. 
After  some  years  spent  at  a  Jesuit  college,  I 
entered  the  novitiate,  and  so  became  a  priest, 
because  there  was  no  other  life  open  to  me. 
I  tell  thee,  Heloise,  'tis  a  sin  greater  than 
my  love  for  thee,  this  imprisonment  of  a 
proud,  young  soul,  made  for  the  world's 
best  smile,  in  a  priest's  garb." 

"  Thou  art  not  Paul  ?  "  the  countess  in- 
terposed, looking  at  him  in  great  dread  of 
the  truth.     He  made  no  direct  reply. 

"  When  a  lad,  I  once,  after  breaking  the 
skin  on  my  finger  by  scraping  it  on  a  sharp 
stone  supporting  our  main  portal,  cried,  and 
asked  my  mother  to  kiss  me.  I  was  re- 
buked,—  'twas  Lent,  —  it  was  sin  to  kiss 
her  child  during  that  season.  It  appeared 
to  me  then  my  little  heart  was  broken, 
never  again  to  mend.  'Twas  love  I  craved, 
Heloise,  'twas  ever  human  love,  —  some 
one  to  live  and  die  beside  for  very  love,  — 
but  'twas  ever  denied  me.     Then  came  the 


The  Devil's  Plough  225 

joy  of  music  to  my  soul,  and  flowers,  and 
all  else  that  giveth  innocent  pleasure  until 
the  mind  hath  reached  intemperance  in  it,  — 
then  the  highest  pleasures  cloy  the  spirit  as 
doth  intemperance  in  sweets  the  body.  Be- 
loved, I  have  lashed  my  back  an  entire  night 
to  rid  my  soul  of  the  spring  desires  for  trees 
and  singing  birds  and  moonlight  nights ;  I 
have  done  penance  for  hours  before  the 
altar,  lying  stretched  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
praying  for  Heaven's  help  from  my  desires 
for  earthly  love.  At  last,  in  the  life  bestowed 
upon  me,  I  found  an  outlet  for  my  poor 
humanity.  The  poor  of  Paris  I  could  love 
without  fear  of  purgatory." 

The  countess  half  rose  from  her  seat. 
"  Thou  art  Paul's  brother,  —  Father  Gaston, 
the  beloved  of  the  people  ?  " 

"  I  am  Father  Gaston,  —  brother  of  Paul 
de  Chatillon,  —  beloved  of  the  people.  But, 
Heloise,  my  beloved^  I  am  not  brother  to  the 
man  thou  hast  loved,  —  I  am  that  man." 

"  'Tis  not  true  !  "  she  cried,  covering  her 
eyes  with  her  hands.  "  'Tis  not  a  priest  I 
love ! " 

"  'Tis  a  Jesuit  priest,  —  but  also  a  man. 


226  The  Devil's  Plough 

My  brother,  Paul  de  Chatillon,  died  after 
the  battle  at  Nordlingen,  one  year  ago. 
Listen,  countess,  and  believe  me,  for  I  am 
the  man  thou  lovest." 

The  lady  now  paced  up  and  down  before 
him,  holding  the  silken  scarf  close  about  her 
face.  The  man  stood  in  silence,  looking 
far  ahead  into  the  moonlight,  then,  "  'Twas 
this  way,"  he  began.  "  When,  as  a  child,  I 
was  first  tempted  by  Satan,  he  appeared  to 
me  beneath  a  tree.  Afterward  years  passed 
in  self-control  before  all  temptations,  until 
last  spring,  when  journeying  into  Normandy 
on  foot,  making  what  the  Church  held  to  be 
a  penitential  journey,  but  what  to  me  was 
my  one  yearly  season  of  delight  among 
country  pleasures,  Satan  again  appeared  to 
me.  With  this  vision  came  remembrance 
of  all  my  life  had  been  denied,  —  all  that  a 
soldier's  portion  might  have  opened  up  to 
me.  Then,  when  I  found  my  brother  lying 
dead  by  the  roadside,  foully  murdered  by 
forest  outlaws  for  gain  of  the  booty  he  and 
his  followers  carried  home  from  the  wars 
Satan  whispered  to  me  of  this  double  life. 
Paul  was  dead ;  within  me  lived  two  men : 


The  Devil's  Plough  227 

without  becoming  apostate  and  abandoning 
the  good  I  have  done  the  people,  I  might 
enjoy  some  years  of  pleasure  unknown, 
unsuspected.  I  buried  my  brother  in  an 
ancient  crypt  beneath  the  chapel  of  our 
Norman  home,  and  after  fierce  struggles  be- 
tween the  creatures  within  me,  lacerating  my 
very  soul,  the  devil's  card  was  played. 

"  I  returned  to  Paris  :  Paul  de  Chatillon 
visited  his  brother  Gaston  by  means  of  the 
garden  gate  and  the  confidence  of  Pierre,  the 
layman,  Gaston  L'Artanges's  sworn  friend. 
Then,  in  the  life  of  Paris,  I  met  and  loved 
thee,  Heloise,  —  and  gained  thy  love  some- 
what, sweet  ?  Say  that  I  had  so  much  good 
fortune,  —  my  one  recompense  after  all  is 
done  ;  for  the  world  of  fashion  gave  me  no 
pleasure."  He  waited  for  an  answer,  but 
she  stood  silently  before  him,  shading  her 
face  with  the  scarf. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  thee,  a  few  weeks 
of  the  double  enterprise  would  have  sufficed 
me ;  but  thou  wert  there,  beloved,  and  my 
heart  opened  of  its  own  accord  as  the  flowers 
unfold  to  the  warmth  of  spring.  Ah,  dear 
heart,  thou  perchance  know'st  the  joys  of 


228  The  Devil's  Plough 

loving?  To  be  loved  hath  its  infinite  sweet- 
ness, but  to  feel  thine  own  heart  raised  from 
a  tomb  of  ice  into  a  flood  of  warmth,  where 
it  grows  and  grows  toward  the  sun,  is  a  joy 
straight  from  paradise,  —  else  the  desire 
were  not  rooted  in  every  human  heart." 

"  Paul !  Paul !  Thy  words  do  but  make 
the  outcome  harder  !  "  The  lady  flung  her 
hands  toward  him  in  despair.  "  What  is  to 
be  the  end  ?  'Tis  plain  now  why  thou  hast 
run  from  the  sword  of  De  Bouteville. 
Alas ! " 

"  But  I  will  fight,  beloved,  if  so  be  thy 
desire.  The  moment  hath  come  when  one 
man  or  the  other  in  me  ceaseth  to  live.  'Tis 
my  purpose  in  coming  here  to-night  to  see 
thee  and  do  thy  will.  My  own  mind  hath 
fought  the  question  until  no  path  is  clear  to 
me.  If  thy  happiness  demandeth  me, — 
this  man  before  thee,  this  soul  that  lives  but 
in  thee,  —  I  am  thine,  through  life  and  death 
and  what  comes  after.  Father  Gaston  can 
at  this  moment  end  his  existence,  and  Paul 
de  Chatillon  enter  the  world  to  remain.  Or 
there  is  the  other  way,  —  Heloise  !  Heloise  ! 
How  can  I  live  without  thy  radiance  about 


The  Devil's  Plough  229 

me?  —  the  other  way,  Heloise!  If  it  is  to 
thy  happiness  or  best  conduct  of  life,  Paul 
de  Chatillon  will  creep  away  from  Ninon's 
fete,  leaving  the  reputation  of  a  coward  to 
follow  his  memory,  and  Father  Gaston  will 
resume  his  burden  of  life.  Thou  hast  the 
framing  of  one  life's  eternity  in  thy  lovely 
hands.     Speak,  Heloise  !  " 

"  My  dearest  friend  on  earth  or  in  all  life 
to  come,"  —  the  words  came  slowly  from 
her  lips,  — "  thy  intention  is  to  fight  De 
Bouteville  with  the  skill  of  a  priest  if  I  call 
thee  to  be  Paul  de  Chatillon?  'Twould 
mean  certain  death." 

"  That  is  my  intention,  sweet.  My  thrust 
doth  not  unequal  his  so  entirely  as  would 
seem  under  these  strange  circumstances,  for 
in  my  leisure  moments  I  have  privately 
practised  all  the  manly  arts.  Love  would 
lend  me  skill,  Heloise.  *Many  waters  can- 
not quench  love,  neither  can  the  floods 
drown  it.'  "  He  held  the  floating  ends  of 
her  scarf  pressed  between  his  two  hands. 
"If  thy  life  is  possible  without  me,  duty 
still  finds  some  echo  in  my  heart.  Speak, 
beloved !     Time  runneth  away.     No   man 


230  The  Devil's  Plough 

can  detain  one  second  in  his  hand  except 
through  memory." 

Heloise  had  remained  passive  until  now, 
when,  the  first  stun  of  his  revelation  hav- 
ing passed,  she  suddenly  grasped  his  sleeve, 
crying,  "  Thou  wilt  not  leave  me !  He 
may  return  !  My  agony  of  spirit  without 
the  consolation  of  thy  presence  is  like  needles 
of  fire  burning  into  my  flesh.    Paul !  Paul !  " 

"  Gaston,  dear  heart,  —  that  is  the  name 
my  mother  called  me,"  he  interrupted, 
gently. 

"  Gaston,  beloved,"  she  continued,  look- 
ing back  over  her  shoulder  as  if  fearing 
spectres  hiding  there  among  the  trees, 
"  thou  art  mine  !  No  church,  no  creature, 
hath  the  right  to  thee  !  " 

"  Thou  lov'st  me,  Heloise  ? " 

She  collected  her  courage  to  voice  the 
will  of  fate.  "Live  thy  life  for  me,  as  mine 
is  thine  through  eternal  days.  If  God  hath 
forgotten  to  give  us  happiness,  we  can  but 
create  our  own."  She  kissed  him  on  the 
brow.  Then  the  man,  without  more  thought 
of  duty  or  the  battles  of  his  conscience, 
took  love  close  to  his  starved  heart. 


The  Devil's  Plough  231 

The  dancers  in  the  ballroom  had  finished 
the  allemande,  and  were  breaking  up  into 
groups  headed  toward  refreshments  and  the 
garden.  The  Due  d'Enghien,  the  Cheva- 
lier de  Bouteville,  and  several  other  gentle- 
men with  their  ladies,  were  bent  upon  a 
moonlight  airing,  and  this  intention  had 
carried  them  so  far  as  the  garden  portico, 
when,  simultaneously,  they  saw  a  man  ap- 
proaching alone  from  out  of  the  winding 
alleys.  His  step  was  rapid  and  determined ; 
thc-e  was  buoyancy  in  every  movement  of 
his  body,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  plumed 
hat. 

«  By  St.  Peter  !  'Tis  De  Chatillon  wear- 
ing the  hat !  "  said  D'Enghien.  "  'Twas  as 
I  said,  —  the  man  carried  some  deep  pur- 
pose in  his  gloomy  eyes  to-night." 

"  I'll  meet  him  now,  if  that  is  his  desire ! 
The  coward  rat !  Have  you  nursed  your 
courage  to  the  point  of  a  thrust.  Monsieur 
Chevalier  Paul  de  Chatillon  ? "  called  out 
De  Bouteville. 

There  came  no  immediate  reply,  but  the 
man  advanced  unfaltering,  until,  reaching 
the  step   immediately  below  where  his  ad- 


232  The  Devil's  Plough 

versary  stood,  he  removed  the  hat,  and  with 
the  words,  "  I  have  the  honour  to  accept 
Monsieur  de  Bouteville's  challenge,"  he 
threw  it  directly  into  the  face  of  that  irate 
gentleman. 

"  I'll  have  at  thee  now,  thou  coward  from 
hell ! "  called  back  the  irascible  De  Boute- 
ville.  "  Now !  In  the  garden  of  Ninon 
we  will  try  thy  courage,  so  long  hidden ! 
Now  !     Now  !  " 

But  D'Enghien  interrupted.  "  Chevalier, 
forget  not  the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman.  No 
duel  can  be  fought  in  the  presence  of  these 
ladies.  A  meeting  can  be  arranged.  Mon- 
sieur de  Chatillon,  at  what  time  and  place 
is  it  your  desire  to  fight  Monsieur  de  Boute- 
ville?" 

"At  any  time  and  hour,  between  now 
and  the  judgment-day,  it  may  please  the 
honourable  gentleman  to  try  his  vaunted 
thrust  upon  me,"  replied  De  Chatillon, 
wearing  an  unusual  air  of  bravado. 

"  The  sooner  thy  soul  is  sent  to  meet 
that  judgment-day,  the  better  'twill  be  for 
all  good  Parisians."  De  Bouteville  was  still 
suffering  under  the  lash  of  the   countess's 


The  Devil's  Plough  2^2 

tongue.  "  I'll  meet  thee  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, just  beyond  the  shrine  of  Magdalene, 
in  the  woods  by  the  river.  I  have  no  great 
hope  of  thy  courage  holding  until  dawn,  but 
if  it  holds  I'll  see  thee  silenced  ere  break- 
fast to-morrow.  We  meet  at  five  in  the 
morning." 

The  challenged  bowed  gravely.  "  *Tis 
then  arranged,  gentlemen.  With  my  friends, 
I'll  attend  you  by  the  shrine  of  Magdalene 
at  five  o'clock  of  the  morning.  'Tis  said 
Mademoiselle  Ninon  hath  for  us  some 
special  entertainment  rivalling  those  of  the 
Hotel  Rambouillet.  I  go  within  to  be 
amused."  After  making  them  a  deep  bow, 
he  entered  the  house. 


Chapter  XIV 

A  PRONOUNCED  quiet  had  fallen 
upon  the  ballroom  festivities  when 
De  Chatillon  came  along  the  grand  gallery. 
He  could  see  through  the  door  that  the 
guests  were  seated  about  the  room,  evi- 
dently listening  with  interested  curiosity. 
To  one  side,  beneath  a  portrait  of  Mon- 
taigne, stood  Ninon,  beside  a  Jesuit  priest 
painfiilly  mutilated  and  scarred  about  the 
head  and  hands.  The  two  exchanged  some 
words,  then  Ninon  turned  to  the  audience. 

"  My  friends,"  she  began,  "  the  diversion 
I  have  to  offer  appeals  not  to  the  ordinary 
social  emotions,  but  to  those  which  confront 
us  when  we  read  of  the  Christian  martyrs. 
In  Rome  the  followers  of  the  greatest  phil- 
osopher, Jesus  Christ,  were  thrown  to  the 
lions   and    burned   at   the   stake;    but   few 

realise  that  in  our  day  the  same  followers 
234 


The  Devil's  Plough  235 

are  suffering  similar  martyrdom  in  that 
far-off  country  of  barbarians  called  New 
France." 

At  that  moment  Chevalier  Jean  de  Beri- 
nac  touched  De  Chatillon  on  the  sleeve. 
These  two  were  old  and  familiar  friends, 
but  had  met  infrequently  during  the  past 
year,  owing  to  De  Berinac's  recent  impris- 
onment at  Vincennes  along  with  Beaufort. 
It  was  but  half-minded  that  De  Chatillon 
answered  his  friend's  salutation ;  the  idea  of 
Ninon's  diversion  moved  him  to  acute  in- 
terest. 

"  Jean,  'tis  good  to  see  thee  once  more," 
he  managed  to  say,  absently.  "It  is  as  if 
we  were  still  lads  at  play  in  the  wood  of 
Great  Andelys,  We  will  defer  proper  greet- 
ings until  Mademoiselle  Ninon's  diversion 
be  fully  revealed,  —  it  giveth  promise  of 
interest.  But  before  we  take  our  place  in 
the  audience,  I  have  a  request  to  make  of 
thee.  To-morrow  at  five,  —  not  far  off 
now,"  —  he  looked  up  at  the  hands  of  a 
great  clock,  pointing  to  eleven,  —  "I  meet 
De  Bouteville.  Wilt  thou  be  my  friend,  and 
secure  another  for  me  ?     'Tis  to  be  a  chance 


236  The  Devil's  Plough 

meeting  of  six,  —  if  the  eye  of  the  edict  fall 
upon  us." 

"It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  assist  in  re- 
deeming thy  honour,  which  hath  not  grown 
fat  in  Paris  this  month  past,  I  am  told.  Count 
upon  me.     Shall  we  enter  together  ?  " 

As  they  took  places  far  back  in  the  room, 
Ninon  was  concluding :  "  At  Rennes  it  was 
I  first  met  Father  Jogue,  whom  you  see 
here  beside  me.  After  undergoing  perils 
and  agonies  beyond  our  understanding,  he 
reached  home  again  on  his  way  to  Rome, 
where  'tis  his  hope  to  secure  assistance  in 
his  missionary  work  among  the  barbarians 
of  New  France.  The  sad  story  told  by  his 
mutilated  hands  must  speak  to  your  gener- 
osity. The  man's  story  hath  touched  even 
my  hard  heart,  —  you  all  know  my  sympa- 
thies are  not  with  the  Church  of  Rome. 
Father  Jogue  will  now  relate  to  you  the 
history  of  his  martyrdom.  To-morrow  he 
hath  audience  with  the  queen."  Ninon  sat 
down  on  a  sofa  adjacent  to  the  unfortunate, 
maimed  creature  in  Jesuit  garb,  who  arose, 
and  began  somewhat  haltingly  to  address 
this  fashionable  audience. 


The  Devil's  Plough  237 

"  My  hands  but  speak  the  greater  glory 
of  God,  mesdames  and  messieurs,  —  the 
greater  glory  of  God.  What  I  have  done 
was  not  for  advancement  in  the  Church,  but 
in  faith  of  saving  to  the  Church  the  souls  of 
the  savage  red  men,  otherwise  condemned 
to  the  tortures  of  hell.  What  were  my  tor- 
tures compared  to  the  sufferings  of  thousands 
of  savages,  if  their  bodies  were  to  remain 
unbaptised?  In  these  arms,  now  feeble 
from  Iroquois  torture,  have  been  saved 
some  thousand  souls  to  Christ.  St.  Joseph 
hath  protected  my  life,  and  every  day  in 
New  France  showeth  a  holy  miracle  di- 
rect from  God,  the  enthroned  Father  ; 
from  his  divine  Son,  and  from  the  Im- 
maculate Mother."  Father  Jogue  paused 
and  crossed  himself,  looking  toward  heaven 
for  direction  in  the  wording  of  this  appeal 
for  charity. 

"  The  waters  of  the  mighty  river  named 
for  the  holy  St.  Lawrence  rolleth  through  a 
virgin  wilderness.  There,  along  its  banks, 
are  scattered  the  three  villages  comprising 
New  France,  called  Quebec,  Montreal,  and 
Three    Rivers,  containing  a  population  of 


238  The  Devil's  Plough 

some  three  hundred  souls  in  all,  surrounded 
night  and  day  by  the  terror  of  attack  from 
the  fiends  in  human  form  called  Iroquois 
Indians,  some  armed  with  firearms  from  the 
Dutch  traders  at  Fort  Orange,  others  fight- 
ing with  the  arquebus.  My  work  among 
these  savage  tribes  was  to  make  friends  with 
them  for  the  greater  glory  of  God. 

"  I  had  passed  some  time  safely  among 
the  Ojibways,  having  preached  the  faith  to 
two  thousand  of  them  assembled  at  Sault 
Sainte  Marie,  and  was  on  my  way  back  to 
our  settlement  of  Three  Rivers,  in  hopes 
of  procuring  clothing  for  priests,  vessels  for 
the  altars,  bread  and  wine  for  the  eucharist, 
and  writing-material,  without  which  the 
blessed  work  could  not  long  continue.  I 
had  with  me,  in  my  canoes,  a  noted  Indian 
convert,  chief  of  a  great  tribe,  and  several 
others  under  instruction  for  baptism,  but 
the  greater  part  of  my  train  were  heathen, 
whose  canoes  were  laden  with  the  proceeds 
of  their  bargains  with  French  fur-traders. 
Two  lay  brothers  accompanied  me  in  the 
foremost  canoe.  The  twelve  canoes  had 
reached  the  western  end  of  the  Lake  of  St. 


The  Devil's  Plough  239 

Peter,  where  the  forest  was  dense  on  the 
right,  and  the  shallow  waters  near  that  bank 
were  covered  thickly  with  bulrushes.  Sud- 
denly, as  morning  breaks,  there  broke  upon 
us  fearful  cries,  known  as  the  Indian  war- 
whoop,  with  which  the  savages  invariably 
begin  their  attack.  From  out  the  bulrushes, 
where  they  had  lain  concealed,  came  canoes 
filled  with  Iroquois  warriors,  accompanied 
by  loud  reports  of  guns  and  whistling  bul- 
lets. Panic  seized  the  Indians  in  our  train; 
they  leaped  ashore  and  fled  to  the  woods, 
leaving  us  to  our  fate,  for  we  were  far  out- 
numbered. With  fearful  yells  we  were 
seized  upon,  but  not  before  I  had  baptised 
the  few  Indians,  in  our  own  canoes,  faithful 
to  us.  Couture,  one  of  the  laymen,  de- 
fended himself  by  shooting  an  Indian.  At 
this  the  rest  sprang  upon  him,  stripped  off 
all  of  his  clothing,  tore  away  his  finger-nails 
with  their  teeth,  gnawed  his  fingers  with  the 
fury  of  famished  dogs,  and  thrust  a  sword 
through  one  of  his  hands."  Father  Jogue 
paused  again  and  closed  his  eyes  in  horror 
of  the  remembrance  his  own  words  called 
up.     The  ladies  present  hid  their  faces  be- 


240  The  Devil's  Plough 

hind  their  fans  in  disgust  of  the  barbarous 
picture. 

"  I  hurried  to  the  defence  of  Couture, 
single-handed,  but  was  immediately  seized 
and  beaten  with  fists  and  war-clubs  until  I 
lay  senseless.  As  I  slowly  came  back  to 
life,  I  felt  the  savages  lacerating  my  fingers 
with  their  teeth."  He  held  up  to  view  his 
maimed  hands.  "  'Tis  no  pleasant  sight, 
my  friends ;  but  it  may  induce  the  French 
people  to  realise  our  great  need  of  assist- 
ance in  New  France.  For  the  greater  glory 
of  God,  help  us  with  the  money  necessary 
to  carry  on  the  will  of  Christ."  The  priest's 
eyes,  behind  singed  lashes  and  eyebrows, 
shone  with  the  great  purpose  of  his  life. 
The  ladies  even  forgot  his  repulsive  appear- 
ance in  meeting  his  beseeching  glances. 

Comtesse  de  Joinville  unloosened  a  dia- 
mond bracelet  from  about  her  arm,  crying, 
**  Take  this,  or  anything  I  have,  to  save  men 
from  such  brutal  persecution  !  " 

"  Madame  hath  a  pious  heart,"  replied 
Father  Jogue.  "  Heaven  will  reward  you. 
The  miseries  of  my  journey,  when  captive 
to  the  Iroquois,  are  too  painful  for  human 


The  Devil's  Plough  241 

ears.  The  pain  and  fever  of  my  wounds 
were  increased  by  clouds  of  mosquitoes. 
After  eight  days,  our  victors  were  joined 
by  two  hundred  warriors  of  their  own  tribe. 
Then  we,  the  captives,  were  forced  to  walk 
up  the  side  of  a  hill,  between  two  rows  of 
these  warriors  armed  with  clubs  and  thorny 
sticks,  with  which  they  beat  us.  At  last  I 
fell  powerless,  and  they  again  mangled  my 
hands,  and  applied  fire  to  my  body. 

"  The  next  day  the  canoes  were  launched, 
and  this  barbarous  flotilla  sped  us  on  our 
way  among  the  devious  channels  of  danger- 
ous narrows,  beset  with  woody  islets,  whose 
hot  air  smelled  sweetly  of  pine  and  spruce 
and  cedar,  —  the  only  balm  my  wounds 
knew,  except  the  holy  consolations  of 
Heaven.  At  last  the  warriors  landed  and 
marched  for  the  nearest  Iroquois  village.  I 
was  forced  to  carry  my  share  of  their  plun- 
der, even  though  I  had  tasted  no  food  but 
wild  berries,  and  staggered  under  the  load. 
Thirteen  days  after  leaving  the  St.  Lawrence, 
we  neared  their  goal  on  the  river  Mohawk. 
Whoops  called  all  the  Indians  of  the  village 
swarming  out  to  meet  the  victors  and  their 


2^2  The  Devil's  Plough 

prisoners.  We  were  led  in  single  file  through 
this  screaming  mob,  who  repeated  the  tor- 
turous abuse  of  our  bodies  I  have  already 
described.  They  mounted  us  high  up  on  a 
scaffold,  then  ordered  a  Christian  Algonquin 
woman  among  their  prisoners  to  cut  off  my 
thumb,  which  she  did." 

Here  a  lady  interrupted  the  narrative  by 
crying  out,  and  a  general  murmur  of  sym- 
pathetic suffering  came  from  Father  Jogue's 
listeners. 

"  'Tis  needless  to  describe  what  remained 
of  torture,"  he  went  on.  "  Everything  pos- 
sible was  done  to  frightfully  hurt  us  without 
causing  death.  At  night  we  were  bound 
and  laid  on  the  ground,  where  they  might 
pelt  us  with  live  coals  and  red-hot  ashes. 
For  two  days  and  nights  we  continued  to 
endure.  While  on  the  scaffold  I  took  the 
occasion  offered  to  convert  four  other  pris- 
oners. An  ear  of  corn  was  thrown  to  me 
for  food ;  a  few  raindrops  clung  to  the 
husks ;  with  these  I  baptised  two  of  my 
converts. 

"  All  during  the  summer  I  remained  among 
them,  every  moment  anticipating  death  from 


The  Devil's  Plough  243 

their  cruelties ;  but  I  managed  to  baptise 
their  babes  unknown  to  them,  and  so  was 
repaid  for  my  sufferings.  Several  times  they 
attempted  my  death,  but  were  miraculously 
prevented  from  murder  by  heavenly  pow- 
ers. I  was  saved  that  I  might  return  to 
France  for  help  in  converting  these  savages. 

"  Late  in  the  autumn,  a  party  of  the 
Indians  setting  out  on  their  yearly  deer 
hunt,  I  was  ordered  to  attend  them.  Shiver- 
ing and  starving,  I  followed.  The  game 
they  took  was  devoted  to  their  god,  Ares- 
koni ;  accordingly,  I  nearly  starved,  because 
no  Christian  could  eat  of  it.  In  a  lonely 
spot,  remote  from  their  camp,  I  cut  the 
bark  of  a  great  tree  into  the  shape  of  a 
cross,  and  there  offered  up  my  devotions, 
half  clad  in  furs  as  I  was,  —  my  only  pro- 
tection against  the  snow  and  ice  now  cov- 
ering the  earth. 

"  When  spring  came,  and  we  returned  to 
the  villages,  I  was  given  great  freedom,  be- 
cause I  made  no  attempt  to  escape.  Then 
I  went  from  village  to  village,  giving  abso- 
lution to  Christian  captives  and  baptising 
the    heathen.      As  July  reached   its   close. 


244  The  Devil's  Plough 

one  year  ago,  I  went  with  a  party  of  Indians 
to  a  fishing-place  on  the  Hudson  River, 
twenty  miles  from  the  trading-station  of 
Fort  Orange.  While  there,  I  learned  that 
another  war  party  had,  during  our  absence 
from  the  settlement,  returned  with  prison- 
ers, whom  the  savages  burned  to  death. 
My  conscience  smote  me.  Had  I  been 
present,  they  would  not  have  entered  the 
future  life  unbaptised.  I  begged  to  return. 
The  Indians  soon  after  sent  a  canoe  up 
the  river,  and  allowed  me  to  depart  in  it. 
Reaching  Fort  Orange,  we  landed  to  trade 
furs  with  the  Dutch.  There  I  saw  several 
houses,  the  first  in  more  than  a  year. 

"At  Fort  Orange  I  was  informed  se- 
cretly that  the  Indians  of  the  village  where 
I  had  resided  were  suddenly  enraged  against 
me,  and  determined  to  burn  me,  because  of 
a  warning  I  had  sent  the  French  concern- 
ing an  Indian  war  strategy  of  grave  portent. 
The  Dutch  warned  me,  and  offered  safe 
conduct  to  Bordeaux  in  a  small  Dutch  vessel 
then  on  the  point  of  sailing.  I  spent  the 
following  night  in  great  agitation,  tossed  by 
doubt  lest  my  self-love  beguile  me  from  my 


The  Devil's  Plough  245 

duty.  Finally,  upon  my  knees,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Holy  Mother  bidding  me  re- 
turn to  France  for  help  among  the  heathen, 
and,  accordingly,  I  set  sail,  after  escaping  the 
hot  pursuit  of  the  Indians. 

"  Imagine,  my  friends,  my  unutterable 
joy  when,  after  months  of  deprivation,  I 
once  more  attended  holy  communion  in  a 
church  of  Christ.  From  the  coast  of  Brit- 
tany I  travelled  on  foot  to  Paris,  asking 
alms  for  the  missions  in  New  France.  At 
Rennes,  this  noble  lady,  who  permitteth  me 
to  appear  before  you,  heard  my  story,  and, 
after  seeing  my  mutilated  hands,  bestowed 
alms  upon  me  generously.  'Tis  the  wisdom 
of  Heaven  that  I  should  carry  back  with 
me  these  startling  evidences  of  the  danger 
constantly  before  the  missionaries  of  New 
France.  I  beeseech  you  to  give  heed  to 
their  story  !  Ad  majorem  Dei  gloriam.  Laus 
Deo  semper" 

He  held  his  pitiful  hands  out  in  benedic- 
tion upon  them.  At  once  the  guests  re- 
sponded by  crowding  around  Father  Jogue 
with  generous  offers  of  assistance.  His 
maimed  hands  were  soon  filled  with  jewels 


246  The  Devil's  Plough 

and  money,  giving  him  a  sense  of  recom- 
pense that  only  the  spirit  of  martyrdom 
could  promote. 

Among  those  who  spoke  to  him  was  the 
Chevalier  de  Chatillon,  whose  face  betok- 
ened wide-awake  sympathy  and  admiration 
for  the  martyred  Jesuit.  "  Father  Jogue," 
he  asked,  "  in  the  days  of  thy  extreme  peril 
was  thy  soul  tranquil  ?  Hast  thou  found 
peace  ? " 

"  'Tis  the  peace  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing, my  son,"  replied  the  priest, 
fervently.  "  The  soul  cannot  suffer  in 
obedience   to    Heaven." 

"Then  thy  reward  is  greater  than  thy 
sufferings."  De  Chatillon  handed  him 
money  and  passed  on. 

Shortly  afterward  a  written  message  was 
deHvered  to  Father  Jogue,  reading: 

**  Father  Gaston  L'Artanges  urgeth  Father  Jogue  to 
appear  at  the  college  of  St.  Ignatius  shortly  after  mid- 
night, —  an  hour  hence.  The  rector  of  the  college 
hopeth  by  this  immediate  interview  to  directly  further 
the  greater  glory  of  God.  I  have  the  honour  to  remain, 
**  Thy  brother  in  Christ, 

**  Gaston  L'Artanges." 


The  Devil's  Plough  247 

"  'Tis  a  strange  hour,"  commented  Father 
Jogue,  "  but  the  need  must  be  urgent. 
Father  L'Artanges  is  a  pious  worker  for 
Christ." 

When  the  missionary  felt  that  he  could 
conscientiously  break  away  from  the  aroused 
interest,  lucrative  to  his  cause,  he  deposited 
the  offerings  made  him  in  the  care  of 
Ninon's  secretary,  and  proceeded  across 
the  river  on  foot,  through  the  devious 
black  ways  of  a  Parisian  night,  pro- 
tected^ only  by  his  Jesuit  habit.  Fre- 
quently it  was  necessary  for  him  to  inquire 
his  way  along,  having  been  many  years  re- 
moved from  these  streets,  once  familiar  to 
him. 

Outside  the  front  portal  of  St.  Ignatius 
stood  a  man  holding  a  lighted  lantern.  "  If 
I  mistake  not,"  said  Father  Jogue,  address- 
ing him  very  civilly,  "this  is  the  college  of 
St.  Ignatius,  —  and  thou  wearest  the  Jesuit 
habit  ?  The  darkness  preventeth  easy  move- 
ments or  clear  vision." 

"  The  moon  doth  not  peep  sufficiently 
high  over  the  cloister  walls  to  light  us. 
This  is  St.  Ignatius,"  replied  Pierre.     "  If 


248  The  Devil's  Plough 

I  also  mistake  not,  this  is  the  missionary- 
brother  from  New  France." 

"  I  am  Father  Jogue,  recently  returned 
from  New  France,  —  and  here  on  some 
private  business  with  the  rector  by  his  par- 
ticular request."  Father  Jogue  held  L'Ar- 
tanges's  message  open  in  his  hand. 

"  The  rector  will  receive  thee  at  once, 
but  by  another,  his  private  entrance.  I, 
being  the  lay  brother  in  the  immediate  ser- 
vice of  Father  Gaston,  have  awaited  thee 
here  this  half-hour,  and  will  conduct  thee 
by  the  nearest  way  to  his  presence.  Come, 
holy  father,  —  this  way."  Pierre  held  his 
lantern  higher ;  its  light  disclosed  the  muti- 
lated face,  at  sight  of  which  Pierre  gave 
audible  expression  of  horror,  for  which  he 
apologised  quickly.  "  'Tis  a  miracle  that 
thou  hast  been  saved  from  the  savages,  holy 
father.  Thy  rewards  in  heaven  will  be 
great.  Turn  to  the  left,  —  there  is  a 
gate." 

Father  Jogue  followed  in  silence,  repress- 
ing his  misgivings  at  these  clandestine  pro- 
ceedings. In  the  rector's  antechamber  he 
found  the  celebrated  preacher  awaiting  him. 


The  Devil's  Plough  249 

standing  in  front  of  logs  smouldering  in  the 
fireplace,  vainly  trying  to  warm  his  hands. 

"  I  feel  it  a  great  honour  to  receive  a 
brother  in  Christ  so  worthy  of  Heaven's 
gratitude.  Thy  great  deeds  in  New  France 
have  heralded  thy  coming,  Father  Jogue," 
said  L'Artanges,  saluting  the  missionary. 
"  This  matter  with  which  thou  and  I  must 
deal,  though  of  my  own  private  concern, 
beareth  directly  upon  the  credit  of  our  Order. 
But  thou  art  apparently  weary  after  the 
experiences  of  the  day.  Sit  beside  the  fire. 
Pierre,  bring  the  holy  father  some  refresh- 
ment, then  stand  at  the  refectory  door  until 
I  summon  thee." 

"  I  am  grateful  for  thy  consideration. 
Father  L'Artanges,"  replied  the  missionary. 
"  After  life  in  Canada,  a  wood  fire  op- 
presseth  me  with  its  warmth  this  summer 
night :  with  thy  permission,  I  will  sit  farther 
away,  —  over  against  the  window.  Doth 
the  matter  in  hand  bear  upon  the  mis- 
sions ? " 

Pierre  returned  with  wine  and  bread. 
During  his  presence  in  the  room,  L'Ar- 
tanges  made   no   reply  to  the  missionary. 


250  The  Devil's  Plough 

but  stood  rubbing  his  hands  together  and 
absently  watching  his  own  movements. 
When  the  layman  went  out,  he  at  once 
took  up  the  thread  of  speech. 

"  No,  the  missions  are  not  directly  con- 
cerned. Father  Jogue.  I  heard  thy  story 
as  thou  related  it  at  Mademoiselle  de 
L'Enclos's  this  evening.  I  was  never  be- 
fore so  deeply  impressed  by  the  Jesuit 
power  for  heroic  deeds.  Thy  martyrdom 
followeth  close  upon  the  divine  achieve- 
ments of  the  Saviour;  I  stand  in  deep 
humility  before  the  soul  of  a  great  man." 
L'Artanges  humbly  bowed  his  head  before 
the  repulsive  body  somewhat  screened  by 
the  shadows,  into  which  the  priest  had  with- 
drawn. 

"  Each  man  hath  his  own  work  to  do. 
I  am  but  a  humble  soldier  of  the  Cross. 
Hadst  thou  been  called  in  my  place,  'tis 
possible  thou  wouldst  have  done  better 
work  for  Christ,"  replied  the  missionary. 

"  Father  Jogue,"  broke  in  L'Artanges, 
abruptly,  "  thou  hast  seen  me  before.  Only 
to-night  I  spoke  to  thee  at  Ninon's  fete. 
Wilt  thou  confess  a  soul  on  its  way  to  judg- 


The  Devil's  Plough  251 

ment?  On  the  morrow  I  go  to  probable 
death,  and  my  soul  seeketh  peace  with 
which  to  enter  the  grave  or  rise  into  a  new 
life  on  earth.  Under  the  seal  of  confes- 
sional I  must  speak  to  thee."  He  walked 
up  and  down  before  the  missionary,  who  sat 
with  amazed  eyes,  looking  at  L'Artanges  for 
signs  of  approaching  death. 

"  Hast  thou  some  secret  disease,  brother  ? 
If  so  thy  appearance  giveth  it  the  lie." 

"  Is  there  any  man  living  who  hath  not 
some  secret  disease  of  the  soul  ?  The 
worms  of  sin  thrive  in  the  soil  of  the  soul 
until  Satan's  plough  turneth  them  up  before 
the  gaze  of  man.  Life  is  a  great  unrest, 
brother.  'Tis  better  to  wear  thy  scars  upon 
thy  face  than  in  thy  heart,  where  they  rot 
away  thy  very  life.  On  the  morrow  I  die. 
This  Gaston  L'Artanges  under  any  circum- 
stances hath  no  longer  being  after  the  sun 
riseth.     Pray  for  me." 

The  great  preacher  of  Paris  fell  on  his 
knees  before  the  scarred  missionary,  out- 
stretching his  arms  at  full  length  in  the 
form  of  a  cross.  When  he  began,  "  Holy 
father,  I    acknowledge   my  faults,"   Father 


252  The  Devil's  Plough 

Jogue,  bewildered  and  uncomfortable,  arose 
before  him  to  receive  the  confessional. 
L'Artanges's  words  fell  from  his  lips  hot 
and  restless,  but  his  body  shook  in  a  chill 
under  the  steady  eyes  of  the  martyr,  who, 
until  an  hour  before  dawn,  wrestled  there 
with  Satan,  whom  he  clearly  saw  possessing 
this  soldier  of  Christ  kneeling  before  him. 


Chapter  XV 

THE  dawn  fell  grayly  upon  the  cloisters 
of  Notre  Dame,  but  far  down  by  the 
river,  where  the  shrine  of  St.  Magdalene 
stood  sequestered  among  the  trees,  a  faint 
pink  flushed  the  purple-gray  mist  floating 
from  the  eastern  horizon,  which  lay  quietly 
expectant  of  the  sun.  The  river  splashed  a 
cold  echo  against  its  banks ;  the  rippling 
surface  of  the  water  mounted  into  greenish 
curves  tipped  by  the  pink  and  gold  of  the 
sun's  rays,  that  fell  horizontally  into  misty 
splashes  of  light  skimming  the  water.  The 
birds  awoke  joyously,  and  pierced  the  damp- 
ness rising  from  the  Seine  with  their  sev- 
erally characteristic  calls  or  beginnings  of 
tunes.  The  leaves  of  the  trees  stirred 
faintly  in  the  breeze  springing  before  the 
rising  sun.  Light  penetrated  but  a  short 
distance  into  the  wood ;  beyond  Magda- 
lene's shrine  all  looked  darkly  obscure  and 
253 


254  The  Devil's  Plough 

gloomy,  so  thickly  was  the  ancient  wood  of 
France  populated  by  its  arboreal  nobility. 

Voices,  evidently  approaching  the  open 
space  near  the  bank,  rang  out  from  this 
obscurity,  intimating  the  approach  of  two 
wood-choppers,  each  carrying  an  axe  and 
hobbling  along  in  clumsy  wooden  shoes. 
In  single  file  they  came,  the  elder,  a  man 
beyond  middle  life,  taking  the  lead  in  walk 
and  conversation  ;  the  younger,  a  gawky  lad, 
whose  lower  jaw  hung  as  if  perpetually  pried 
open,  and  whose  eyes  popped  constitution- 
ally, followed  close  behind,  occasionally  step- 
ping on  the  heels  of  his  companion,  and 
thereby  eliciting  remarks  both  unseemly  and 
irritable. 

"  Mind  thy  steps,  now,  Jean !  'Tis 
haunted  ground  thou  tread'st.  'Tis  the 
devil's  courtyard  here,  beyond  the  saint's 
shrine.  Thou  hast  never  been  so  far  be- 
fore. 'Tis  called  so  because  many  fine  gen- 
tlemen spend  their  last  moments  in  it,  on 
their  way  to  purgatory.  Mind  thy  steps, 
I  tell  thee,  or  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  will 
hoot  thee ! " 

"  I  like  not  ghosts.     Why  came  we  this 


The  Devil's  Plough  255 

way  ?  Dost  think  fine  gentlemen  have  fine 
ghosts,  or  ghosts  like  me  ?  I  like  them  not 
in  silk  or  fustian ! "  The  hobbledehoy 
cast  nervous  glances  over  both  shoulders, 
spying  close  between  the  trees  for  the 
supernatural. 

"  Nor  I.  High  folks  should  stay  com- 
fortable in  their  beds  o'  nights,  e'en  if  the 
sexton  be  their  bed-maker.  Mind  thy  feet, 
I  tell  thee,  Jean,  —  thou  walk'st  with  the 
skill  of  a  duck  on  land !  This  wood  be  a 
famous  place  for  duelling,  —  an  unchristian 
way  of  death.  E'en  in  consecrated  ground 
their  bodies  rest  uneasy,  like  eels,  and  that's 
what  brings  'em  slipping  back  to  this  wood, 
among  the  trees.  I'd  not  come  here  be- 
fore dawn  if  'twas  to  see  the  foxy  cardinal 
run  through.  No,  no  ;  not  I  !  "  Fran9ois 
crossed  himself;  the  lout  quickly  imitated 
him,  as  was  his  habit  in  all  things,  stumbling 
against  a  huge  tree-stump  meanwhile. 

"  That  was  a  big  tree  once,"  he  observed 
regaining  his  balance  without  closing  his  jaw. 

Fran9ois  looked  back  and  grinned.  "  No 
bigger  than  thy  feet,  and  not  so  much  in 
the  way.     My  father  cut  it,  sixty  years  ago 


256  The  Devil's  Plough 

come  Michaelmas.  God  rest  him  !  'Twas 
a  fine  tree." 

"  It  hath  the  bigness  of  a  small  table. 
'Tis  good  to  eat  off.  He  was  a  master- 
hand  with  the  axe,  thy  father." 

Jean  paused  to  admire  the  cut  of  the 
tree.  "  'Twas  clean  cut.  Stay  not,  lad, 
else  thou'lt  run  into  ghosts,  —  they  play 
at  dice  on  it."  Fran9ois  grinned  again 
at  sight  of  Jean's  haste  to  be  away  at  this 
warning. 

"  Thou  hast  not  seen  them  truly,  Fran- 
901s  r 

"Not  I,  —  else  I'd  not  be  here.  Jean 
Goup  hath  seen  them  many  times.  He'll 
tell  thee  how  they  look,  and  take  pleasure 
in  the  telling." 

"Thou  hast  seen  real  duels,  hast  thou 
not,  Fran9ois  ? " 

"  Many  a  one.  On  this  same  spot,  lad. 
I  tell  thee,  'tis  no  marvel  the  dead  return 
to  it !  May  the  saints  keep  those  who  sleep 
not  in  holy  ground." 

"  'Twas  their  own  fault  they  couldn't 
sleep,  Fran9ois ;  and  they've  no  fair  right 
to  trouble  honest  folks  that  aren't  yet  dead. 


The  Devil's  Plough  257 

Why  is  it  fine  gentlemen'd  rather  fight  than 
eat  their  breakfast  ?  " 

"  'Tis  sport  with  them,  and  the  fashion 
of  such  folks.  It  giveth  a  gentleman  an 
appetite  to  punch  holes  in  another's  belly 
before  breakfast.  I've  seen  'em  fight  here 
a  dozen  at  a  time  of  a  fine  morning.  'Tis 
a  sight  common  as  the  trees.  Thou  wilt  see 
it  all  in  good  time." 

"  I  never  have,"  said  Jean,  ashamed  of 
his  ignorance. 

"  No,  —  thou  art  still  young.  'Tis  like 
this.  Now,  steady  on  thy  feet !  Hold  up 
thy  axe,  so,  —  I'll  show  thee  how  'tis  done. 
Hold  thy  handle  out  like  the  point  of  a  sword, 
thy  knees  bent  that  thou  may'st  thrust  lightly 
and  hop  back  after.  Now  thou  art  a  gentle- 
man, Jean.  On  guard.  Monsieur  Jean ! 
Mind  thy  feet  trip  thee  not  up  !  " 

"  Thou  know'st  more  of  it  than  I,  Fran- 
9ois.  Thou  wilt  hurt ! "  The  lout  pre- 
pared to  run. 

"  'Tis  a  lesson,  —  blow  upon  thy  courage 
to  make  it  hot.  Now,  try  to  touch  me. 
Thou  canst  not !  "  Fran9ois  was  evidently 
enjoying  to  the  utmost  his  comrade's  timidity. 


258  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  It  must  be  fine  to  be  a  gentleman ! 
Ouch  !  Thou  scrapest  my  belly  !  "  Jean 
laid  a  great  hand  protectingly  below  his 
waist. 

"  Ay,  'tis  fine  indeed  to  wear  a  sword,  and 
use  the  point  of  it  against  the  king's  edicts. 
Now,  guard  thee  well !  I'll  have  at  thee  !  — 
What's  that  ? "  cried  Fran9ois  at  a  peculiar 
sound  coming  from  far  back  in  the  woods, 
now  considerably  lighted  by  the  strengthen- 
ing dawn. 

"  Ghosts  !  "  cried  the  lout,  cowering  and 
dropping  his  axe.  "  Ghosts  !  May  the 
Virgin  protect  me  !     I  can't  look  !  " 

"  Get  thee  along  !  Out  of  the  wood,  — 
run  for  thy  life!  "  whispered  Fran9ois.  "  'Tis 
the  devil  playing  the  fiddle !  'Tis  said  he 
often  doth  it  when  tempting  man.  Run  to 
the  water !  I'll  drop  my  relic  in,  and  make 
the  water  holy,  to  throw  at  him  if  he  ap- 
proacheth  nearer." 

They  both  stumbled  along  at  a  great  rate 
until  reaching  the  river,  where  Fran9ois 
waded  into  the  water,  sacred  relic  in  hand, 
with  Jean  close  at  his  heels. 

Out  from  the  depth  of  the  wood  came 


The  Devil's  Plough  259 

slowly  the  Chevalier  de  Chatillon,  dressed 
immaculately,  and  fiddling,  as  he  walked, 
the  dance-tunes  the  preacher  L'Artanges  had 
fiddled  for  inspiration  before  preaching  his 
great  sermon  one  preceding  Sabbath  morn- 
ing. The  man  appeared  wrapped  in  his 
own  tunes ;  even  the  birds  ceased  carolling 
to  listen.  His  face,  hugging  close  his 
violin,  expressed  only  the  sentiments  of 
his  music.  Upon  nearing  the  broad  stump 
indicated  as  a  dice-table  by  the  recently  fled 
Fran9ois,  he  changed  his  theme  to  one  of 
surpassing  sentimental  beauty.  Pausing  one 
moment  at  a  rest  in  the  bar,  he  laid  De 
Bouteville's  hat  that  he  now  wore,  together 
with  his  own  sword,  carefully  down  upon  the 
stump ;  then,  standing  there,  made  sweeping 
gestures  addressed  to  the  surrounding  trees. 
"  Mesdames  et  messieurs,"  he  said,  smiling 
bitterly,  "  behold  in  me  an  apostate  fiddler, 
doomed  to  eternal  damnation."  Then  he 
continued  the  sensuously  beautiful  strain 
with  apparent  relish.  Entirely  absorbed  in 
his  musical  emotions,  he  failed  to  notice  a 
sadly  disfigured  priest  hurrying  toward  him, 
along  his  own  tracks  through  the  wood. 


26o  The  Devil's  Plough 

Not  until  Father  Jogue  spoke,  in  stern, 
biting  reproof,  did  De  Chatillon  observe 
him ;  then  the  chevalier,  with  an  air  of 
irritable  annoyance,  exclaimed,  without  ceas- 
ing to  play,  "  Holy  martyr,  get  thee  back 
to  thy  red  Indians !  Why  dost  thou  pur- 
sue me  whom  thou  hast  damned  ?  'Tis  not 
the  path  of  martyrs  I  tread." 

"Man,  hast  thou  lost  thy  faculties?" 
remonstrated  Father  Jogue,  laying  a  hand 
on  De  Chatillon's  bow  arm. 

"  Touch  not  my  right  arm,  —  its  freedom 
is  most  important  in  the  music  !  "  was  all  he 
replied. 

"  When  I  left  thee,  an  hour  before  dawn, 
to  seek  the  much-needed  repose  thou  offered 
me,  thy  spirit  was  humbled ;  thy  soul  once 
more  saw  thy  God  without  the  shadow  of 
Satan  between." 

"  'Tis  so,  good  man  ;  but  thou  know'st  not 
the  man  of  moods."  He  still  spoke  through 
the  music.  "  By  the  passing  of  half  an 
hour  the  shadow  had  enveloped  me  once 
more.  This  time  it  hath  brought  peace, — 
peace,  I  say,  thou  martyr ! "  He  ceased 
playing,  and  his  face  assumed  a  great  cheer- 


The  Devil's  Plough  a6i 

fulness.  "  Seest  thou  the  look  of  mine 
eyes  ?  Speak  they  not  assured  determina- 
tion ?  My  struggles  are  over.  Into  the 
ashes  of  mine  own  holy  fire  I  threw  the 
weary  bones  of  Gaston  L'Artanges ;  now 
Paul  de  Chatillon  is  bound  for  hell  to  a 
merry  tune.  But  he  goeth  not  alone, — 
he  will  bear  with  him  sweet  company." 
Again  he  played  several  bars  of  the  dance- 
tune. 

"  Gaston  L'Artanges," — the  priest  pointed 
a  finger  of  warning  at  him,  —  "  hast  thy  soul 
lost  all  remembrance  of  Christ's  teachings  ? 
I  left  thee  a  penitent  man ;  but  the  Holy 
Mother  appeared,  and  warned  me  not  to 
sleep  where  Pierre  had  offered  me  rest.  I 
crept  down  into  thy  antechamber,  and,  lying 
amid  the  shadows  there,  I  saw  thee,  attired 
thus,  depart  through  the  garden.  I  followed 
thee.  Put  Satan  in  woman's  form  behind 
thee!  Oh,  my  brother,  come  from  out  the 
shadows  of  thy  past !  " 

"  Oh,  the  shadows  !  Behold  them.  The 
sun  hath  burst !  Hast  thou  so  fair  a  dawn  in 
New  France,  Father  Jogue?"  L'Artanges 
ceased  fiddling  altogether,  and  laid  his  instru- 


262  The  Devil's  Plough 

ment  down  beside  the  sword  and  hat,  seem- 
ing suddenly  lost  in  that  form  of  mystical 
meditation  so  often  besetting  him.  "In 
dreams  I  have  seen  New  France.  I  have 
seen  the  great  rivers,  the  wild  forests,  and 
myself  among  the  red  men  !  Hast  thou  ever 
strange  dreams.  Father  Jogue  ?  " 

"  What  profiteth  it  any  man  to  gain  the 
whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  I 
beseech  thee,  for  love  of  the  Virgin,  to  save 
thy  soul  before  it  is  too  late  !  "  went  on  the 
kneeling  brother,  in  an  agonised  voice.  Then, 
closing  his  eyes,  he  prayed  aloud :  "  Holy 
Mother,  thy  unworthy  son  doth  seek  thy 
help  in  saving  this  soul  on  the  verge  of 
everlasting  punishment.  Protect  him.  Holy 
Mother,  with  thy  tender  love." 

"  I  have  seen  her  in  my  dreams  ! "  mur- 
mured De  Chatillon,  mystically,  his  eyes  set 
upon  some  spot  far  back  in  the  wood.  "In 
my  dreams  I  have  seen  her  tender  care. 
What  profiteth  it  any  man  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  "  He  gravely 
shook  his  head.  "  Holy  Mother,  I  have 
seen  thy  tender  care  in  my  dreams.  I  see 
thee  now,  coming  from  out  the  shadows." 


The  Devil's  Plough  263 

His  face  changed  expressively,  and  the 
kneeling  priest  turned  his  head  about,  for 
some  interpretation  of  what  he  believed  must 
be  a  miracle. 

"  I  see  thee  !  Thou  art  lovely  ! "  De 
Chatillon  pointed  to  the  advancing  figure  of 
a  woman.  "I  see  thee!  Heloise  !  "  —  the 
joy  in  his  tone  and  face  transfigured  him. 
"  Thou  comest  to  me  in  a  vision.  'Tis  thy 
soul  biddeth  me  farewell.  Is  it  then  that  I 
must  die  by  the  sword  of  De  Bouteville  ? 
Speak,  —  reveal  thy  purpose  !  " 

"  Gaston,  my  dearly  beloved  !  "  The  lady 
spoke,  advancing  sufficiently  close  to  touch 
him,  while  Father  Jogue  returned  in  despair 
to  his  heavenly  supplications.  "  'Tis  soul 
and  body  both  I  bring  to  thee  at  this  ter- 
rible hour.  The  message  thou  despatched 
me  at  midnight,  telling  of  the  meeting  here, 
hath  brought  me.  Could  I  permit  thee  to 
die  without  my  last  farewell,  if  death  it  is  to 
be  ?  Look  not  at  me  so  strangely  !  'Tis 
I,  — Heloise!" 

"  'Tis  true  thou  dost  love  me,  sweet ;  else 
a  lady  would  not  have  wandered  so  far  into 
danger   for   the  sake   of  an  apostate    priest 


264  The  Devil's  Plough 

refused  absolution.  May  I  feel  of  thee  to 
make  sure  'tis  not  one  of  the  strange  sights 
that  do  beset  mine  eyes  ?  " 

Heloise  laid  her  head  close  to  his  face. 
"  'Tis  but  one  moment  borrowed  from  para- 
dise," she  whispered,  after  glancing  at  the 
praying  missionary.  "  The  others  will  come. 
If  thy  fate  openeth  a  place  for  De  Boute- 
ville's  sword,  die  like  a  gentleman,  with  thy 
lady's  kiss  upon  thy  brow."  She  reached 
up  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "If  thou  es- 
cap'st  the  point  of  his  sword,  'twill  be  a  sign 
that  life  together  is  our  portion.  Farewell, 
—  farewell ! " 

The  horse  upon  which  the  lady  had  rid- 
den alone  to  the  spot  wandered  toward 
them.  At  this  moment  he  neighed,  and  the 
material  sound  broke  through  L'Artanges's 
mystical  mood.  "  Heloise,  dearest  of  my 
heart !  Let  me  take  thee  close  to  my 
breast  and  pray  Heaven  to  send  eternal 
sleep  upon  us  as  we  stand  ! "  He  folded 
his  arms  close  about  her.  "  My  life  hath 
been  all  empty  of  love  until  thou  camest  to 
me !  My  heart  is  all  filled  when  thou  art 
here—" 


The  Devil's  Plough  265 

"  Heaven  send  its  curse  upon  thee,  thou 
renegade  soldier  of  Christ !  "  Father  Jogue 
proclaimed  beside  them,  having  risen  from 
his  kneeling  position  in  expressive  horror  at 
sight  of  a  priest  in  a  woman's  embrace. 
"  Let  loose  this  woman  from  thy  carnal 
embrace,  else  Heaven  will  strike  thee  dead." 

"  'Twould  be  no  great  punishment,  if 
both  were  taken,"  L'Artanges  replied,  gently- 
releasing  the  countess,  out  of  instinctive  re- 
spect for  Father  Jogue's  emotions.  "  But, 
dear  heart,  thou  must  not  linger  here.  If 
my  ears  deceive  me  not,  horses  can  be  heard 
coming  along  the  highway.  *Tis  doubtless 
some  of  the  party.  The  time  hath  come 
when  I  can  only  thank  thee  for  this  great 
evidence  of  love,  and  say  farewell.  God 
cannot  damn  so  pure  a  love  as  mine  for 
thee.  If  there  is  justice  in  Heaven,  or  right 
in  the  mating  of  the  birds,  we  shall  meet 
again ;  if  not  under  this  sun,  this  moon,  or 
these  glorious  stars,  'twill  be  where  there  is 
some  greater  light  revealing  us  to  each 
other  —  " 

"  There  is  no  light  but  that  of  Heaven  ! 
What  profiteth  it  a  man  if  he  gaineth  the 


266  The  Devil's  Plough 

whole  world  and  loseth  his  own  soul  ? " 
broke  in  Father  Jogue,  holding  the  cross  up 
before  his  own  face.  "  Carnal  love  is  not 
that  of  the  spirit;  all  flesh  must  die, — 
spirit  alone  liveth  for  ever." 

L'Artanges  shivered  slightly  at  sound  of 
the  text  he  had  so  long  pondered,  but  the 
woman's  hand  lingering  in  his  gave  him 
strength  to  meet  all  consequences. 

"  Father  Jogue,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
priest  with  friendly  dignity,  "  thou  hast  done 
thy  part  bravely.  Heaven  would  ask  no 
more  of  thee.  I  take  upon  myself  the  fu- 
ture conduct  of  my  own  soul.  Farewell. 
I  wish  thee  a  safe  return  to  New  France, 
and  much  fruitful  labour  among  the  red 
men.  'Tis  a  good  cause.  Down  the  bridle- 
path I  see  some  one  approaching.  This 
lady,  if  only  because  of  the  great  love  she 
beareth  me,  must  not  be  observed  here. 
Thou  hast  not  studied  well  into  the  beauty 
of  human  affection,  holy  father.  It  drop- 
peth  from  heaven,  —  God's  benediction  to 
all  his  creatures  deserving  joy.  Conduct 
this  lady  safely  to  her  home  in  Paris,  as  a 
last  Christian  act  toward  me,  the  renegade — " 


The  Devil's  Plough  267 

"  Paul !  Gaston  !  I  cannot  leave  thee.  It 
may  be  death !  Come  away  with  me," 
Heloise  interrupted,  clinging  to  him. 

"  My  beloved,"  he  replied,  tenderly 
loosening  her  hands,  "  I  bear  the  token  of 
a  brave  lady  on  my  brow.  Thou  must  still 
be  brave.  Whatever  comes  is  best.  Thou 
wilt  at  least  hold  me  in  a  dear  remembrance. 
My  Heloise,  depart  quickly,  else  thou  wilt 
be  observed.  Farewell,  —  farewell !  My 
sun  sets ! " 

She  with  difficulty  controlled  herself, 
but  seeing  gentlemen  advancing  down 
the  path,  she  kissed  her  lover's  hand 
impetuously,  seized  her  horse's  bridle, 
and,  leading  the  animal,  disappeared  down 
an  opposite  path  running  toward  the 
river. 

"  Gaston  L'Artanges,"  began  Father 
Jogue,  "  there  is  yet  time.  In  the  name 
of  Christ,  I  beseech  thee — " 

"  Thy  part  is  done,  I  have  told  thee, 
father.  My  path  is  chosen,  —  I  go  wher- 
ever it  leadeth  me.  I  pray  thee  conduct 
the  lady  safely.  This  is  no  place  for  thee. 
Farewell.     SihocfiatySufficit.'' 


268  The  Devil's  Plough 

Father  Jogue,  displaying  infinite  despair 
in  his  attitude,  again  held  his  cross  up  be- 
fore L'Artanges,  repeating  the  prayers  for 
the  dead. 


Chapter  XVI 

L'ARTANGES  stood  with  bowed  head, 
until  a  voice  behind  him  called  out, 
jovially,  "  Thou  earnest  with  the  lark,  De 
Chatillon !  'Twas  not  always  thy  good 
habit  to  be  before  the  clock." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Monsieur  Jean  de 
Berinac,  accompanied  by  a  certain  Comte 
du  Fortigny,  but  yesterday  returned  from 
the  recent  conquest  at  Dunkirk. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  salute  thee,  De 
Berinac,  and  thy  friend,  who,  it  seems,  is 
to  honour  me  with  his  friendly  sword  this 
morning." 

Father  Jogue,  at  sound  of  De  Berinac's 

salutation,  had  hurried  away  in  the  direction 

taken    by   the    countess,    and    L'Artanges, 

referring   to    his    disappearing   figure   by   a 

gesture,   continued,  "  My  father   confessor 

hath  but  now  departed.     'Tis  well  to  set 

things  right  with  Heaven  when  standing  at 
269 


270  The  Devil's  Plough 

the  point  of  a  sword.  Hein,  De  Berinac  ? 
That  is  a  position  with  which  thou  art  well 
familiar.  Thy  friend,  now,  —  I  have  not 
even  the  honour  of  acquaintance  with  his 
name.  'Tis  a  good  one,  —  that  may  be 
counted  upon."  L'Artanges  was  summon- 
ing up  all  the  actor's  art  within  him. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  present  to  your 
acquaintance.  Chevalier  de  Chatillon,  the 
most  honourable  gentleman,  Comte  du  For- 
tigny,  ripe  for  further  conquest,  having  lately 
done  himself  great  credit  on  the  field  of 
battle."  The  gentlemen  bowed,  then  stood 
exchanging  comments  upon  the  prospect  of 
the  duel. 

"  I'll  wager  you  any  sword  of  ours  would 
outskill  that  of  the  highly  vaunted  Mon- 
sieur de  Bouteville  !  "  boasted  Du  Fortigny, 
a  gentleman  of  singular  appearance,  whose 
nose  and  left  eyelid  carried  a  deep  scar  made 
by  one  cut  of  the  short  sword.  "  Til  play 
you  for  the  outcome,  De  Berinac.  Here 
are  dice  in  my  pocket,  where  they  find  them- 
selves much  at  home ;  and  here  is  a  stump 
exactly  fitted  for  the  throw.  Wilt  join  us, 
Monsieur  de  Chatillon? " 


The  Devil's  Plough  271 

"If  you  will  honour  me  with  your  ex- 
cuses, monsieur,  I  will  instead  take  my 
horse  to  drink.  The  animal  hath  a  great 
thirst  this  morning.  He  is  tethered  beyond 
in  the  wood,  —  'twill  take  but  an  instant." 
L'Artanges  walked  off  among  the  trees, 
where,  finding  his  horse,  he  led  it  rapidly 
toward  the  water,  until  a  point  was  reached 
commanding  a  view  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
riding  now  at  some  distance  away  along  the 
river  road.  There  he  stood,  not  far  from 
the  river  bank,  straining  his  eyes  after  He- 
loise  ;  but  presently  he  felt  great  splashes 
of  water  striking  him,  and,  looking  in  the 
direction  from  whence  they  came,  saw  two 
louts  standing  to  the  middle  in  the  river, 
throwing  water  at  him,  and  crying  out : 

"  Holy  Mother,  protect  thy  children  ! 
*Tis  the  fiddling  devil  !  May  the  holy 
water  cleanse  him  ! " 

L'Artanges  heard  their  words  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  The  fiddling  devil,"  he  re- 
peated. "  'Tis  so  ;  the  devil  and  the  fiddle 
have  both  possessed  me."  Then,  in  quick 
forgetfulness  of  trivialities,  he  held  up  one 
hand  in  benediction  upon  Heloise,  now  van- 


272  The  Devil's  Plough 

ishing  into  the  distance,  and  turned  to  lead 
his  horse  back  to  its  tether.  As  he  walked, 
discordant  sounds  reached  his  ears,  jarring 
exceedingly  upon  his  acutely  nervous  sen- 
sibilities. He  paused  to  listen.  A  harsh 
voice  accompanied  the  picking  of  violin 
strings,  and  he  recognised  —  intoned  with 
the  music  of  dish-scraping  rather  than  sung 
—  the  words : 

**  Vos  yeux  adorables 
Ne  sont  point  blamables  ; 
S'ils  peuvent  blesser,  ils  peuvent  guerir." 

The  gentleman,  Du  Fortigny,  having  dis- 
covered the  viohn  on  the  stump,  was  greatly 
amusing  himself. 

"  De  Berinac,"  bellowed  Du  Fortigny, 
robustiously,  "  I  am  thy  troubadour  re- 
turned from  the  wars !  Permit  me,  fair 
lady,  to  embrace  thee  with  the  speed  of  an 
eye-wink,  before  the  bold  intruders  discover 
us.  T4ien  I  will  sing  to  thee  another  ballad 
of  love." 

Loud  laughter  followed,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  bridle-path. 

"  Sweet    Rosebud,   I   must  leave  thee ! " 


The  Devil's  Plough  273 

continued  Du  Fortigny,  "  but  once  more 
thy  troubadour  tunes  his  harp  to  thine 
ears."  A  fearful  din  ensued,  made  by  the 
gentleman's  jocular  abuse  of  pitch,  com- 
bined with  the  voice  of  an  ass,  his  parents 
gave  him, 

L'Artanges  left  his  horse  to  crop,  and 
appeared  coming  from  the  direction  of  the 
shrine,  at  the  moment  De  Bouteville,  Du 
Brion,  and  De  Trouville  reached  the  stump. 

Du  Fortigny  now  addressed  his  noise,  in 
the  form  of  welcome,  to  the  newcomers, 
improvising  a  farcical  salutation  directed 
at  each  one  consecutively  in  great  good 
humour.  Even  De  Bouteville's  chronic  ill 
temper  was  broken  through  by  this  diver- 
sion, and  there  was  much  boisterous  laugh- 
ter afloat  when  L'Artanges  approached  his 
challenger  with  the  more  usual  form  of  greet- 
ing. 

Immediately  at  his  appearance  the  mood 
of  the  company  changed ;  they  were  all  in- 
stantaneously alert  upon  the  business  of  the 
morning.  The  customary  formalities  were 
at  once  exchanged,  and  afterward  De  Berinac 
spoke  aside  to  L'Artanges. 


274  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  By  your  leave,  I'll  engage  Monsieur  de 
Trouville.  It's  an  even  choice  in  skill,  and 
the  man's  manner  now,  as  always,  doth 
annoy  me.     I  itch  to  tell  him  so." 

"  Kill  him  not,  De  Berinac,"  warned  Du 
Fortigny,  who  stood  within  ear-shot  of  this 
request ;  "  he  owes  me  certain  golden  louis." 
Then,  advancing  toward  the  three  opponents 
talking  together,  he  said,  gaily  enough  for 
the  ballroom,  "  We  were  somewhat  before 
you,  gentlemen.  The  morning  warmeth 
rapidly,  —  is  it  not  well  to  begin  before 
the  sun  outstrippeth  us  in  heat  ?  " 

"  No  moment  could  be  too  early  to  suit 
my  inclinations,"  replied  De  Bouteville,  ad- 
vancing ;  "  but  the  cursed  laws  make  it 
necessary  for  a  gentleman  to  incommode 
himself  to  avoid  them." 

L'Artanges  touched  his  sword,  saying, 
"  Let  us  then  break  them  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

"This  is  a  chance  meeting,  gentlemen, — 
nothing  prearranged.  We  walk  in  the  wood 
and  chance  to  encounter  each  other."  Du 
Brion  showed  his  handsome  teeth  mock- 
ingly as  he  spoke.     "  We  quarrel   by  acci- 


The  Devil's  Plough  275 

dent,  and  —  Dieu  s'en  attriste!  —  the  edict 
remains  unbroken.  Come,  let  us  quarrel, 
gentlemen  !  " 

But  De  Bouteville  suggested,  condescend- 
ingly, "  Monsieur  de  Chatillon  should  be 
grateful  for  the  gift  of  a  few  extra  minutes ; 
before  death,  every  moment  is  valuable." 

"  We  have  already  wasted  sufficient,  mon- 
sieur," L'Artanges  replied,  unmoved. 

De  Berinac  spoke  up  for  his  friend. 
"Take  time  easily,  Paul.  Let  us  go  com- 
fortably. Monsieur  de  Trouville,  I  take 
this  occasion  to  tell  you  that  your  manner 
annoys  me  past  endurance.  Your  smile 
fatigues  me." 

De  Trouville  bowed,  replying,  "  I  shall 
take  this  same  occasion  to  fatigue  you  even 
more,  monsieur.     Your  sword  !  " 

Du  Fortigny  approached  Du  Brion  with, 
"  And  you.  Monsieur  du  Brion, —  I  have 
the  honour  to  tell  you  that  you  keep  bad 
company.     Your  sword,  monsieur  !  " 

Du  Brion  replied,  "  I  keep  it,  then,  on 
invitation.  They  are  of  equal  length,  I 
believe,"  —  measuring  swords  with  his  eye. 
"  If  not,  we  have  others." 


276  The  Devil's  Plough 

De  Berinac  now  held  out  his  sword  toward 
De  Trouville,  while  he  asked,  "Is  my  sword 
the  length  of  thy  tongue,  monsieur  ?  Ah, 
they  match  like  twins.  'Tis  a  pity  they 
meet  in  anger." 

De  Trouville  answered,  sarcastically,  "A 
family  quarrel  is  not  altogether  unknown 
in  France." 

Then  De  Berinac,  rapidly  falling  into 
position,  called  out,  "It  remains  to  be  seen 
which  is  the  elder  brother.     On  guard !  " 

But  De  Bouteville  again  interrupted. 
"  Hold,  gentlemen  !  If  Monsieur  de  Cha- 
tillon  wishes  to  apologise,  promising  fur- 
ther that  he  will  — " 

L'Artanges  hastily  interfered  with  this 
suggestion  by  breaking  in.  "  On  guard. 
Monsieur  de  Bouteville!  —  without  more 
words." 

De  Bouteville  bowed  low.  "  So  be  it ! 
You  will  be  my  twentieth  man,  at  the  least 
count,  monsieur." 

"  'Tis  Heaven's  part  to  make  me  your 
last,  then,  if  I  do  not  myself  end  your 
capabilities  for  more.  On  guard  !  "  They 
crossed  swords ;  at  which  signal  the  others 


The  Devil's  Plough  277 

set  to,  most  energetically  displaying  their 
skill. 

"  Have  at  you ! "  called  Du  Brion. 
"  Here's  an  end  to  my  bad  company ! " 

But  Du  Fortigny  answered,  "  Not  alto- 
gether. Thy  intention  was  better  than  thy 
execution." 

Their  clashing  swords  rang  through  the 
wood:  six  men  seeking  each  other's  lives 
a  la  mode.  Du  Fortigny  fought  with  gallant 
gaiety  and  bravado,  talking  incessantly,  and 
finally  breaking  into  improvised  verse,  with 
which  he  rounded  out  his  skill : 

**  The  garden  where  last  night  we  kissed 
Is  hidden  by  the  morning  mist 
That  riseth  from  the  Seine  ;  — 

Ah,   'twas  a  clean  cut,  but   not   sufficient. 


monsieur 


**  I  scent  the  roses  in  the  breeze 
And  try  mine  eyes  again  in  vain,  — 

Hein,  hein!  No  more  of  that! 

"Seeking  that  garden  of  Hesperides." 

"What  have  we,  —  the  poet  Voiture?" 
asked  Du   Brion. 


278  The  Devil's  Plough 

Du  Fortigny  lunged  while  answering, 
"  Yes,  monsieur.  Ah,  ah  !  —  Voiture  in  his 
cradle.     I  touched  you,  monsieur  !  Now  !  " 

Meantime,  De  Bouteville  grew  hot  with 
his  pet  passion..  "You  give  ground,  mon- 
sieur !  "  he  cried.  "  Damn  you,  you  touched 
me !  You  are  presumptuous.  Your  own 
thrust,  perhaps,  equals  that  of  Saint-Evre- 
mond,  hein  ? " 

"  Have  a  care,  Paul !  "  warned  De  Berinac. 
"  Lose  no  ground,  —  he  rounds  thee  into 
the  sunlight !  Ah,  the  devil's  blood  !  I'm 
touched ! " 

"  Let  not  thy  attention  wander,  monsieur," 
suggested  De  Trouville,  "  from  my  smile." 

Du  Brion  and  Du  Fortigny  had  rounded 
off  to  some  distance,  but  they  both  saw  De 
Berinac's  face  bleeding.  Du  Brion  spoke 
politely  to  his  opponent : 

"  You  delight  me,  monsieur.  I  trust  we 
shall  see  more  of  each  other.  Observe 
monsieur,  your  friend.  He  appeareth  to 
be  on  the  losing  side." 

"  'Tis  nothing,"  replied  Du  Fortigny. 
"  'Tis  but  the  fortune  of  war.  Ah,  you 
are  wounded ! " 


The  Devil's  Plough  279 

"  Yes,"  said  Du  Brion  ;  "  but  I  do  equally 
well  with  my  left.  On  guard,  Du  Fortigny  ! 
We  shall  be  friends  after.  My  faith,  you 
are  of  my  own  mettle  !  " 

Meanwhile,  L'Artanges,  although  deeply 
breathed,  held  up  his  end  of  the  duel  with 
surprising  skill,  considering  the  limitations 
of  his  experience  in  such  practices.  He- 
loise  seemed  to  him  constantly  moving  at 
his  side,  spurring  him  on  with  never  failing 
encouragement;  "  Heloise  !  "  breathed  on 
his  lips,  as  he  fought.  To  his  glowing 
imagination  the  duel  was  but  a  game  of 
dice-throwing:  Heaven  had  now  its  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  or  for  ever  after  hold  its 
peace ;  he  was  determined  to  abide  by  the 
throw,  and  so  end  his  mortal  combat.  Un- 
der this  stimulant  he  fought  with  a  success 
sufficient  to  arouse  De  Bouteville's  best  skill 
and  worst  humour. 

This  gentleman  exclaimed,  when  he  saw 
L'Artanges  move  his  lips  in  satisfaction, 
"  You  seek  to  anger  me,  monsieur,  but  I 
am  calm,  —  damn  you!  My  temper,  like 
my  sword,  hath  no  losing  quality.  Ah  ! " 
He  cut  close  to  L'Artanges's  left  shoulder. 


2  8o  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Ah,  I  have  you !  Learn  now  the  thrust 
of  De  Bouteville,  e'en  if  you  ne'er  speak  of 
it  hereafter,  —  except  in  purgatory." 

"  Guard  thy  temper  well,  monsieur,  lest 
it  may  show  an  opening  for  my  sword," 
L'Artanges  returned,  looking  off  for  an  in- 
stant toward  the  bridle-path,  where  it  seemed 
to  him  intrusion  was  imminent ;  for  a  gallop- 
ing horse  could  be  plainly  heard  above  the 
sound  of  swords. 

The  rider  of  this  horse  leaped  to  the 
ground  and  ran  toward  them.  "  Stay  thy 
butchery,  for  the  love  of  heaven  !  "  he  called 
to  unheeding  ears.  "Hold,  gentlemen!" 
again  he  cried,  waving  a  letter  toward  them. 
"  I  come  from  Rome  !  " 

"  Presently,  presently,  we  will  give  heed," 
called  back  De  Bouteville,  whose  appetite  for 
blood  was  now  beyond  easy  appeasement. 
"  What  is  Rome  to  us  ?  Stand  out  of  harm's 
way,  lest  we  do  you  hurt,  good  brother !  " 

"You  may  kill  me,  if  you  will,  but  this 
affair  must  not  continue !  "  the  Jesuit  an- 
swered, stepping  between  De  Bouteville  and 
his  partner.  "  Which  of  you  answers  to  the 
name  of  Paul  de  Chatillon  ? " 


The  Devil's  Plough  281 

Father  Thomas  had,  by  way  of  Rome, 
cleared  the  way  for  his  own  advancement. 
His  conscientious  nose  had  carried  him  suc- 
cessfully close  on  to  the  scent  of  his  supe- 
rior's malodorous  adventures.  Coincidence 
in  time  furthered  his  purpose,  and  now  here, 
in  the  very  heart  of  damning  evidence,  ap- 
peared the  messenger  of  fate. 

The  duelling  ceased,  but  the  gentlemen 
retained  their  positions,  when  L'Artanges, 
whose  sword  fell  to  the  ground  heavy  with 
premonition,  replied,  "  I  am  he  who  answers 
to  that  name.  You  come  to  us  on  some 
mission  from  the  general  of  the  Jesuits, 
good  father  ? " 

"  That  is  the  object  of  my  haste,  mon- 
sieur." The  priest  looked  the  suppositi- 
tious De  Chatillon  steadily  in  the  eyes,  con- 
tinuing, "  I  would  speak  with  you  privately." 

"  When  this  affair  with  these  gentlemen 
is  settled,"  L'Artanges  answered,  picking  up 
his  sword  as  if  to  proceed. 

"  Now,  monsieur !  At  once  !  "  With 
this  the  priest  stepped  closer  to  him,  add- 
ing, in  lowered  tones,  "  At  once  —  in  the 
name  of  obedience.     This  paper  —  read  it. 


a 82  The  Devil's  Plough 

The  general  at  Rome  sends  this  message  to 
thee.  Thou  art  not  —  "but  he  paused, 
looking  around  at  the  others ;  then  contin- 
ued, "  Read,  monsieur.  You  will  not  fail 
to  comprehend." 

"  Heaven  hath  spoken  !  "  muttered  L'Ar- 
tanges,  taking  the  letter  into  his  hands. 

"  Ad  major  em  Dei  gloriam,^'  spoke  the 
priest,  solemnly. 

"  The  morning  is  still  cold,  monsieur," 
interposed  De  Bouteville,  in  annoyance. 
"We  lose  time." 

But  L'Artanges  was  reading  the  letter.  A 
sobbing  sigh  arose  in  his  throat ;  he  looked 
all  about,  as  if  for  something  lost.  "  New 
France  and  martyrdom  ! "  he  exclaimed,  to 
the  wonder  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  For  the  greater  glory  of  God,"  repeated 
the  priest. 

L'Artanges  nodded  his  head  slowly. 
"  Heaven  hath  spoken,"  he  reiterated. 

"  Come  !  Come  !  "  called  out  De  Boute- 
ville. "  I  tell  you  the  morning  is  still  cold  ! 
On  guard !  Proceed  with  the  business  of 
the  hour.  Gentlemen,  resume.  My  twenty- 
first  man  is  not  yet  despatched." 


The  Devil's  Plough  283 

L' Artanges  still  read  the  letter ;  the  words 
burned  into  his  eyes. 

"  Paul,"  exclaimed  De  Berinac,  crossing 
over  beside  his  friend,  "  what  means  this  ? 
What  are  we,  thy  friends,  and  gentlemen, 
to  understand? " 

At  the  name  "  Paul  "  L' Artanges  looked 
up  quickly.  He  glanced  about  as  if  seeking 
some  one.  "  Paul !  Paul !"  he  said,  affection- 
ately, "  I  have  played  with  thine  honour. 
'Tis  due  thee  I  should  kill  this  man." 

"  Ad  major  em  Dei  gloriam"  repeated  the 
messenger  from  Rome,  holding  out  his 
crucifix. 

"  For  the  greater  glory  of  God,"  echoed 
L' Artanges,  his  face  lighting  and  setting 
into  firm  lines  of  decision.  "'Tis  for  God's 
glory  for  me  to  be  a  man,  and  save  another's 
honour !  Continue,  gentlemen.  We  will 
fight  to  the  finish.  Paul  de  Chatillon  hath 
still  a  word  to  say."  Excitement  flushed 
his  cheek ;  his  eyes  dilated  full  upon  De 
Bouteville.  "  Proceed,  Monsieur  de  Boute- 
ville.  I  would  add  a  finish  worthy  of  the 
promise  my  sword  held  out  at  the  moment 
of  interruption." 


284  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  I  had  some  fear  the  messenger  might  be 
in  your  service,"  sneered  De  Bouteville,  ad- 
vancing to  cross  swords. 

"  By  the  blood  of  a  De  Chatillon,  you 
will  not  live  the  minutes  longer  'twould  take 
to  thus  again  insult  me !  "  L'Artanges's 
voice  rang  through  the  woods,  and  the 
wood-choppers  paused  in  the  distance  to 
listen  apprehensively. 

"  Stay  !  Stay  thine  iniquitous  hand  !  " 
The  brother  from   Rome  caught  his  arm. 

"  Stand  back  upon  thine  own  territory, 
man,"  replied  L'Artanges,  shaking  him  off. 
"  These,  perchance,  are  my  last  moments. 
*Tis  good  to  be  a  man  !  The  air  of  earth 
doth  swell  my  lungs  !  Heaven  is  for  mar- 
tyrs, —  'twill  come  later.  Fight,  gentlemen  ! 
Why  waste  so  good  an  opportunity  ?  " 

The  others,  with  unconscious  accord, 
glanced  at  one  another  questioningly.  De 
Trouville  whispered,  aside,  "  De  Chatillon 
hath  drunk  too  early  in  the  day." 

De  Berinac  replied,  "  So  far  there  is  no 
evidence  in  the  quality  of  his  thrust.  A 
man's  brains  are  like  enough  to  tremble  at 
the  moment  of  sending   De   Bouteville  to 


The  Devil's  Plough  285 

hell.     'Tis  an  important  occasion."     They 
crossed  swords. 

"  My  company  hath  not  improved," 
called    Du    Brion. 

**  I  scent  the  roses  in  the  breeze 
And  try  mine  eyes  again  in  vain. 
Seeking  that  garden  of  Hesperides,** 

sang  Du  Fortigny. 

Again  the  sound  of  metal  clashed  through 
the  forest. 

"  Heloise  !  Paul !  "  The  names  still  hung 
upon  L'Artanges's  lips.  He  fought  with  a 
strength  and  skill  only  possible  to  an  inex- 
perienced hand  when  inspired  by  ancestral 
instincts  latent  in  the  blood  and  spurred  on 
by  a  gigantic  purpose.  Gaston  L'Artanges 
had  met  his  fate,  and  he  welcomed  it  eagerly 
in  preference  to  his  indecisive  free  will. 

The  priest  from  Rome  stood  back  among 
the  trees,  praying  for  help  from  heaven.  The 
now  risen  sun  glanced  across  his  shoulder 
and  flashed  upon  the  fighting  group  of  men. 

"  Gaze  well  upon  the  risen  sun.  'Tis  the 
last  thou'lt  see,"  breathed  L'Artanges,  lung- 
ing desperately. 


286  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  'Tis  like  a  sun  doth  shine  in  hell  to  heat 
the  —  Ah  !  "  cried  De  Bouteville,  stagger- 
ing to  one  side.  "  The  end  hath  come  !  I 
have  seen  it  so  in  dreams !  Du  Brion ! 
Du  Fortigny !  Tell  Paris  'twas  the  devil 
thrust  me  through."  His  friends  ran  to 
him.  "  Look  upon  him  /  "  the  injured  man 
cried. 

"  'Tis  not  the  face  of  Paul  de  Chatillon," 
Du  Brion  assented,  holding  De  Bouteville 
in  his  arms. 

L'Artanges  had  grasped  his  sword  stiffly 
in  one  hand  and  now  pointed  it  indicatingly 
at  a  tree  near  by.  "  Hast  thou  not  done 
well?"  he  cried.  "I've  killed  my  man! 
Take  him,  and  set  him  down  to  my  credit 
on  thy  accounts  !  " 

"  De  Chatillon,"  said  De  Berinac,  touching 
him,  to  call  his  attention.  "Paul  1  Here 
is  the  sword  of  Monsieur  de  Bouteville. 
Forget  not  the   courtesy  of  the  occasion." 

L'Artanges  passed  one  hand  wearily  over 
his  eyes,  and  took  the  sword  automatically. 
"  For  Paul,"  he  said,  in  half-audible  words ; 
then  turning  full  upon  the  group  surround- 
ing the  prostrate  De  Bouteville,  added  for- 


The  Devil's  Plough  287 

cibly,  "  'Tis  not  for  me.  I  am  not  Paul  de 
Chatillon." 

"Holy  Mother  defend  us !  "  prayed  the 
priest,  now  kneeling  beside  De  Bouteville. 
"  Defend  the  honourable  Order  from  the 
scandal   of  his  confession." 

"  Who,  then,  art  thou  ?  "  asked  Du  For- 
tigny,  approaching  him  curiously.  "  There's 
mystery  behind  all  this." 

But  L'Artanges  stood  leaning  wearily  for- 
ward upon  the  two  swords  he  held,  and 
made  no  reply. 

"  'Twas  the  devil,"  murmured  De  Boute- 
ville, faintly.  "  I  would  die  —  in  my  bed, 
Du  Brion.  Bear  me  to  Paris.  Tell  Ninon 
—  'twas  the  devil.  'Twill  touch  her  merry 
humour.  Paris  will  —  have  another  orange 
to  squeeze." 

"  The  man  hath  gone  dumb.  He  will  not 
speak,  —  'tis  waste  of  merry  time  to  linger. 
Let's  back  to  Paris  and  tell  the  tale,"  said 
Du  Fortigny  aside  to  De  Berinac. 

"  I  cannot  leave  him  so  distraught.  Paul 
hath  been  my  friend  from  infancy,  though 
now  so  changed  I  fear  for  his  reason." 
De    Berinac   moved    protectingly  closer  to 


288  The  Devil's  Plough 

his  friend,  as  he  replied  to  Du  Fortigny's 
suggestion. 

"  I  then  will  offer  my  assistance  in  bear- 
ing De  Bouteville  off  the  field.  'Tis  doubt- 
ful if  he  lives,  —  the  thrust  is  near  the 
heart ;  clean,  but  awkward.  To-night  we 
meet  at  La  Carotte  Rouge  ?  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Dice  at  midnight.  A  brief  farewell,  De 
Berinac." 

"  Ninon  will  laugh  —  Paris  will  laugh  — 
De  Bouteville  died  a  merry  death,  slain  by 
the  devil,"  came  from  the  bleeding,  half- 
conscious  man. 

L'Artanges  slowly  followed  behind  De 
Bouteville,  whom  the  others  had  lifted  and 
were  gently  bearing  along  the  path  through 
the  wood.  De  Berinac  joined  him,  and 
the  entire  company  proceeded  in  silence  a 
few  steps,  until  L'Artanges  paused,  and, 
turning  about,  said  to  his  friend,  "  Go  with 
the  others,  De  Berinac.  I  thank  thee  and 
thy  friend  for  thy  good  offices.  To  thee 
I  needs  must  say  farewell,  for  'tis  possible  I 
am  about  to  depart  upon  a  long  journey.  If 
so,  'tis  unlikely  we  shall  meet  again.  When 
thou  callest  to  mind   thy   boyhood   friend. 


The  Devil's  Plough  289 

deal  gently  with  his  memory,  —  he  was  the 
slave  of  his  birthright." 

"  Permit  me  to  remain  beside  thee.  I 
fear  De  Bouteville  touched  thee,  and  thou 
art  unwell.  We  will  return  to  Paris  to- 
gether," urged  De  Berinac. 

"  No,  Jean,  I  must  deny  myself.  Thou 
wouldst  not  ride  comfortably  with  the  dead, 
and  to-day  Paul  de  Chatillon  dies.  Heaven 
hath  spoken." 

"  Paul,  thou  dost  talk  strangely." 

"  Go  now,  Jean.  I  bid  thee  farewell.  A 
sword  hath  fallen  upon  me  swifter  and  truer 
even  than  Saint-Evremond's.  Heaven  hath 
spoken." 

The  two  looked  well  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  then  De  Berinac  reluctantly  fol- 
lowed the  combatants  down  the  path. 

"  Father  Gaston,"  said  the  priest,  in  low 
tones  of  warning,  "  you  have  broken  your 
vows  to  the  utmost  limit  of  the  law.  The 
general  commands  your  presence  in  Rome 
immediately  upon  the  receipt  of  the  orders 
I  bore  hence." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  the  general !  Rome  !  New 
France  !     Yes,  'tis  so,"  looking  down  at  the 


290  The  Devil's  Plough 

missive  grasped  firmly  in  one  hand.  "  I  no 
longer  need  trust  to  mine  own  indecision. 
Heaven  hath  spoken.  I  beg  of  you  the 
favour  to  retire  into  the  wood  until  I  have 
somewhat  recovered  from  my  recent  emo- 
tions. I  will  join  you  presently,  and  then 
proceed  to  Paris  in  your  company." 

The  Jesuit  complied  and  slowly  led  his 
horse  down  the  bridle-path. 

L'Artanges  began  to  pace  restlessly  up 
and  down  the  mossy  earth,  but  very  soon 
he  sank  down  upon  the  old  stump,  in  an 
attitude  of  resigned  finality.  Looking  off 
in  the  direction  of  Paris,  he  murmured, 
"  Heloise,  dost  thou  know  ?  Heaven  hath 
spoken.  I  thought  I  knew  my  own  soul, 
but  a  stronger  will  than  mine  hath  appointed 
the  way."  His  eyes  fell  upon  his  violin, 
lying  beside  him  on  the  stump ;  they  cleared 
at  the  sight,  and  he  eagerly  stretched  forth 
his  hand,  speaking  softly,  "  Heaven  will  not 
take  thee  from  me  !  Even  in  the  wilderness 
thou  wilt  sing  of  human  love,  and  I  will 
answer." 

He  raised  the  instrument  to  his  shoulder, 
and  began  to  play  the  passionate  theme  he 


The  Devil's  Plough  291 

left  off  not  yet  an  hour  ago.  His  music 
resounded  through  the  wood,  and  the  wood- 
choppers,  peering  at  him  from  the  direction 
of  the  river,  whispered,  with  their  heads  to- 
gether, "  All  the  ghosts  have  gone,  but 
Satan  fiddling.    'Tis  a  bad  sign  for  harvest." 


Chapter   XVII 

WRITTEN  to  the  Comtesse  de  Lune- 
ville. 

"  Beloved  :  —  In  order  to  quell  thy  uneasiness,  owing 
to  the  reports  thou  art  most  like  to  hear  in  Paris  to- 
day, I  write  thee  circumstantial  details  of  the  affair  as  it 
occurred  this  morning,  at  the  earliest  moment  possible 
for  me  to  compose  myself  sufficiently.  Thou  and  I 
have  not  lived  together  in  that  daily  communion  which 
teacheth  an  understanding  of  the  very  essence  of  another's 
character.  Having  no  clear  understanding  of  myself,  it 
is  not  in  me  to  demand  from  others  that  which  even  I 
have  not,  nor  can  ever  hope  to  possess.  In  very  truth, 
I  ask  no  excusing  of  my  conduct,  which  hath  no  excuse 
to  offer  either  to  thee  or  Heaven.  I  have  loved  thee 
well,  and  now  my  life  on  earth  is  finished  :  what  days 
remain  to  me  are  to  be  devoted  to  helping  others  toward 
a  spiritual  comfort  I  have  never  yet  found  myself. 

"  My  father  bestowed  upon  me,  as  my  only  inherit- 
ance, almost  a  twin  resemblance  to  my  brother,  and  a 
nature  not  altogether  weak,  but  changeable  in  moods, 
forcing  me  often  to  feel  myself  composed  of  more  than 
one  identity.  This  changefulness  hath  ever  wrought  me 
no  good  in  the  performance  of  any  set  purpose.  When 
292 


The  Devil's  Plough  293 

I  was  put  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  given  task,  I,  work- 
ing under  another's  will,  never  yet  have  failed  to  achieve 
success,  but  the  lash  of  my  own  particular  will  was  ever 
insufficient.  In  my  relations  with  thee  thou  must  not 
have  failed  to  observe  this  weakness. 

•*  After  we  had  conversed  together  at  Ninon's,  I  be- 
came a  man  capable  of  forfeiting  heaven  for  thy  sake, 
until  the  moment  when  Father  Jogue,  the  missionary, 
convinced  me  in  confessional,  some  hours  later,  that  the 
delights  of  this  world  profiteth  no  man  anything  if,  in 
then-  enjoyment,  he  loseth  his  own  soul.  The  saving  of 
my  own  soul  is  not  all  to  me,  but  my  peculiar  power  to 
save  the  souls  of  others  would  seem  a  special  dispensation 
from  Heaven  not  to  be  disregarded.  I  then  determined 
to  give  thee  up,  and  so  left  Father  Jogue  with  that  per- 
suasion ;  but  by  the  passing  of  another  thirty  minutes, 
spent  alone  with  my  recollection  of  thee,  thy  lover  en- 
veloped my  being.  To  him  thou  art  the  glorious  sun 
of  eternity,  and  therefore  he  crept  away  costumed  as 
Chevalier  de  Chatillon  to  meet  Monsieur  de  Bouteville, 

"  The  duel  was  well  on  (and  I  may  say,  to  give  thee 
a  moment's  pride  of  thy  De  Chatillon,  his  sword  showed 
not  rust  nor  his  right  arm  unworthy  skill,  for  thy  heart 
beat  beside  him  and  lent  him  power),  when  a  messenger 
from  the  Jesuit  general  arrived,  ordering  Father  L'Ar- 
tanges  to  the  missionary  fields  of  New  France.  This  all 
followed  close  upon  thy  depart\.ire  from  the  scene,  — 
after  I  had  watched  thee  ride  away,  while  my  hope  of 
seeing  thee  again  grew  with  every  heart-beat.  The  great 
eye  had  penetrated  De  Chatillon's  mask  from  the  distance 


294  The  Devil's  Plough 

of  Rome  (assisted,  'tis  my  belief,  by  certain  brothers  of 
the  Order  personally  ambitious  for  the  rectorship  of  St. 
Ignatius),  and  this  was  the  sentence  of  punishment.  I 
am  too  valuable  a  member  of  the  Order  to  merit  public 
disgrace,  which  at  all  times  is  avoided  by  the  Jesuit  policy, 
but,  my  vows  of  obedience  having  once  been  broken, 
must  be  disciplined  into  submission  by  severe  measures. 

"  Thou  canst  not  fail  to  conjecture  that  the  general 
hath  conceived  false  notions  pertaining  to  my  vows  of 
chastity.  Thou  and  Heaven  know  my  conscience  in 
that  respect.  Were  I  to  take  measures  toward  securing 
proofs  of  my  innocence,  it  would  be  a  possible  matter  to 
convince  Rome  ;  but  it  doth  appear  to  me  unseemly  to 
expose  thy  name  to  examination.  Moreover,  as  thou 
hast  without  doubt  by  this  time  heard,  the  skill  of  my 
brother  entered  into  me,  and,  spurred  by  the  demands  of 
his  honour,  my  sword  despatched  Monsieur  de  Bouteville 
and  his  incomparable  thrust  to  a  yet  nearer  acquaintance 
with  Satan  than  he  had  before  suffered.  My  conscience 
hath  now  another  man's  soul  to  answer  for,  but  it  at  present 
experiences  a  numbness  no  shudder  could  penetrate, 

**If  my  conventual  life  is  to  continue  'tis  best  to  end 
it  in  the  open  air  of  New  France,  where  a  priest  may 
possibly  bathe  his  body  in  the  flowing  streams  without 
causing  censure  thereby  for  neglect  of  his  spirit.  I  go, 
Heloise,  —  first  to  Rome,  then  to  life  among  the  savages. 
Thou  wilt  say,  *  The  balance  hung  upon  the  outcome  of 
the  encounter  with  De  Bouteville.  Hast  thou  no  mind 
for  thine  own  words  ?  '  I  answer,  *  Can  a  man's  words 
count  against  the  voice  of  Heaven  ? '     Thou  and  I  are 


The  Devil's  Plough  295 

now  within  the  long,  unpitying  arm  of  the  Order  of 
Jesuits.  Paul  de  Chatillon  breathed  his  last  in  any  guise 
the  day  the  general  turned  his  eyes  upon  L'Artanges. 

*•  'Tis  possible,  countess,  thou  wilt  say  to  thyself, 
*  'Tis  not  my  dearest  friend  writing  thus  calmly  of  our 
final  separation  ; '  but  receive  my  assurances  that,  in  the 
open  face  of  danger  or  heart-despair,  a  man,  who  sitteth 
not  the  coward's  steed,  holds  himself  together  with  a 
steady  hand,  in  preparation  for  the  outcome  of  whatever 
chanceth  to  menace  him.  Thy  lover  is  a  man  dead  to 
thee ;  but  thy  religion  permits  thee  to  say  prayers  for 
the  dead.  In  thy  heart,  where  the  choicest  flowers  of 
memory  bloom,  tend  well  mine  image,  which  must,  I 
fear  and  hope,  cast  a  shadow  there.  But  could  shadows 
fall  if  the  sun  failed  to  shine  ?  No.  And  in  the  light 
of  that  sun  we  have  beheld  together,  look  thee  far  on 
into  eternity,  of  whose  realms  no  man  hath  yet  received 
a  clear  picture.  There  thou  and  I  may  find  some  garden 
spot  together,  where  'twill  be  given  us  by  Heaven  to 
share  delights  denied  us  here.  Thou  art  all  of  human 
life  to  me.  If  humanity  be  not  entirely  lost  in  the  prog- 
ress of  the  spirit,  thou  and  I,  being  one  in  perfect  love, 
will  find  each  other  somewhere. 

"  I  am  given  considerable  time  in  which  to  prepare 
for  my  departure,  owing  to  delay  of  the  ship  upon  which 
I  undertake  the  voyage  to  New  France.  Meantime,  I 
make  a  hurried  journey  to  Rome  and  back  again  before 
sailing.  My  trusty  Pierre  elects  to  accompany  me,  and 
in  this  wise  I  am  comforted  somewhat  for  the  change 
from  the  familiar  into  the  unknown.     The  dangers  to  be 


296  The  Devil's  Plough 

encountered  among  the  savages  of  New  France  appal  me 
not,  for  the  soldier  spirit  within  me  snugly  fits  to  that 
need.  The  rigours  of  the  climate  appal  me  more,  but 
this  body  of  ours  doth  accustom  itself  to  change  with 
amazing  success. 

*'  My  flow  of  words  doth  gain  force  in  continuance 
by  the  desire  to  detain  the  coming  of  that  disheartening 
word,  farewell.  My  love  of  thee  is  twined  about  every 
letter  in  that  word,  and  sealed  with  my  prayer  that 
Heaven  will  keep  thee  safe  and  pure  through  the  lonely 
journey  before  thee.  Perform  always  the  duties  set  thee 
with  a  view  to  some  future  good  derived  thereby  ;  for 
God  himself  is  good,  no  matter  to  what  evil  purposes 
man  hath  bent  his  commandments.  I  speak  to  thee  as 
if  from  out  the  grave,  and  so  can  see  fiill  well  a  certain 
justice  in  all  pain  which  my  living  being  hath  denied  at 
times.  And  now,  —  and  now,  the  hour  hath  come  ! 
My  soul  quivereth  like  leaves  before  the  approaching 
storm,  at  thought  of  our  separation.  I  have  loved  thee 
well,  sweet,  —  but  the  dead  speak  not  of  love  !  Keep 
this  body  close  to  thine  own  in  remembrance,  and  it  will 
then  live  safely  guarded  from  temptations.  Ah,  my  very 
words  give  me  the  lie,  —  a  dead  body  needeth  no  protec- 
tion. Now  the  minute  hath  arrived  ;  I  hear  the  great 
clock  ticking  all  life  away  into  eternity.  So  the  Son 
of  God  may  have  waited  for  the  supreme  moment  of 
Calvary  ;  but  my  lack  of  divinity  turneth  me  craven. 
Heloise  !     Heloise ! 

**  Thine, 

"  Gaston." 


The  Devil's  Plough  297 

This  letter  Pierre  delivered  to  Comtesse 
de  Luneville  on  the  day  of  its  writing,  at 
the  moment  when  Ninon  de  L'Enclos  sat 
on  one  of  the  countess's  easiest  chairs,  de- 
tailing the  outcome  of  De  Chatillon's  meet- 
ing with  De  Bouteville,  —  a  nut  whose  meaty 
quality  Paris  found  most  digestible. 

"  Thou  hast  amused  thyself  considerably 
with  De  Chatillon,"  Ninon  was  saying,  as 
she  patted  the  nose  of  a  diminutive  dog 
whose  head  obtruded  from  the  great  muff 
she  carried,  "  and  therefore  it  needs  must 
give  you  certain  inward  delights  to  see  that 
gentleman  not  so  fine  a  coward  as  he  had 
before  set  himself  down  in  the  eyes  of  Paris. 
As  early  as  when  my  father  taught  me  to 
perform  upon  the  flute,  he  made  me  a  maxim  : 
*  Beware  of  a  cowardly  action  ;  it  sticketh  to 
thy  reputation  as  doth  the  mud  of  Paris 
to  a  garment,  —  with  a  great  stench.'  It 
is  not  so  brilliant  as  many  maxims  I  have 
myself  made  since,  but  it  hath  an  odour  of 
truth  which  many  of  my  own  sayings  lack. 
D'Enghien  holdeth,  owing  to  De  Trou- 
ville's  account  of  the  meeting,  that  De 
Chatillon  hath  lost  his  wits.     'Tis  like  his 


298  The  Devil's  Plough 

sword  sharpeneth  better  on  one  wit  than  on 
many.  And  sweet  Bussy  (no,  doggy,  'twas 
thy  namesake  of  whom  I  spoke,  not  thee,  — 
attend  to  thy  decorum  !)  hath  this  morning 
told  me  De  Fortigny  (only  yesterday  re- 
turned from  the  wars)  told  him  that  De 
Chatillon  was  like  a  man  possessed.  But 
have  you  heard  how  Corneille  only  to-day, 
while  composing  phrases  to  this  Parisian 
isle  of  enchantment,  was  bagged  by  La 
Reynie  for  keeping  a  slovenly  doorstep  ? 
The  writer  of  tragedies  liveth  with  his  eyes  on 
heaven  and  his  feet  in  a  pig-sty,  as  do  most 
Parisians.  'Tis  my  opinion  I'll  have  to  pave 
the  street  in  front  of  my  house  in  order  that 
Paris  may  be  set  a  decent  fashion.  But 
to  return  to  De  Chatillon, — 'tis  rumoured 
he  hath  left  Paris,  his  mystery  yet  unsolved. 
A  tale  of  cowardice  cut  in  two  by  a  tardy 
hero's  sword  !  (Go  to  sleep,  Bussy  !)  I've 
a  strong  intention  to  follow  him,  and  thus 
amuse  myself  with  further  blame  in  the 
proceedings.  'Tis  already  said  we  spent 
together  my  time  of  unexplained  absence. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  De  Chatillon  as 
a  coward  and  a  gallant,  countess  ?  "     With 


The  Devil's  Plough  299 

this  question,  Ninon  paused  and  glanced 
narrowly  at  the  countess.  Behind  this  lady's 
flippant  flow  of  language  there  was  usually 
to  be  traced  some  rational,  coherent  pur- 
pose. 

But  Heloise  sat  with  her  eyes  cast  down 
at  the  embroidery  upon  which  she  indus- 
triously worked.  She  made  no  immediate 
reply,  but  reached  over  and  offered  the  tiny 
dog,  Bussy,  some  sweets  from  a  chaste  silver 
box  resting  on  a  table  near  by.  "  Bussy  hath 
an  appetite  equal  to  his  namesake,"  she  ob- 
served, patting  the  dog. 

It  was  a  custom  peculiar  to  Heloise,  her 
constant  wearing  of  white  garments  indoors, 
and  after  this  period  of  her  life,  for  many 
years,  she  was  never  seen  in  clothes  of 
another  colour.  Now,  as  she  sat  there  close 
beside  the  window,  for  the  purpose  of  best 
lighting  her  embroidery,  the  lady's  face 
showed  no  more  life  than  did  the  colour  of 
her  frock ;  her  eyes  were  faded  of  their  in- 
tense blue  as  are  pansies  when  sprinkled 
with  summer  dust,  but  her  glowing  hair 
preserved  tone  to  her  appearance  otherwise 
sadly  changed  of  late. 


300  The  Devil's  Plough 

After  feeding  the  dog,  she  gave  her  atten- 
tion somewhat  perfunctorily  to  the  scandal  of 
the  day.  "  'Tis  true.  Monsieur  de  Chatillon 
hath  done  himself  no  great  credit  with  Mon- 
sieur de  Bouteville,  up  to  this  morning,  but 
it  is  the  part  of  his  friends  to  disclose  the 
whole  mystery  before  forming  an  opinion." 

"  Thou  wert  ever  as  coldly  balanced  as 
an  icicle,  countess,"  returned  Ninon.  "A 
woman  should  never  take  a  husband  with- 
out the  consent  of  her  head,  or  lovers 
without  the  consent  of  her  heart.  'Tis  my 
belief  thy  heart  hath  no  tongue  to  speak 
with,  else  the  count  would  not  come  out 
of  Vincennes  and  find  thee  balancing  De 
Chatillon  like  a  spark  of  fire  on  the  peak 
of  an  icicle.  But  'tis  impossible  more  grace- 
fully to  eat  one's  corn  in  the  blade  than 
I  am  doing,  —  let  us  find  some  other  crow 
to  pick.  The  plague  hath  broken  out 
again,  and  'tis  feared  —  " 

But  an  attendant  interrupted,  conveying 
the  letter  brought  hither  by  Pierre  to  the 
countess.  Heloise,  after  all  due  apology, 
broke  the  seal  and  glanced  through  several 
lines  of  it.     Ninon  watched    her   covertly, 


The  Devil's  Plough  301 

although  apparently  playing  with  the  dog ; 
but  the  victim  of  her  gaze  laid  the  letter 
carelessly  down  upon  the  table,  partly  be- 
neath a  piece  of  tapestry  lying  there.  "  1 
will  not  rob  myself  of  the  pleasure  of  your 
society,  dear  Ninon,  while  reading  at  length 
what  Monsieur  Du  Brion  hath  to  say  to 
me.  Most  like  'tis  no  different  from  what 
he  hath  already  confided  to  all  Paris  con- 
cerning the  duel." 

"  Word  from  De  Chatillon  would  be  more 
amusing,"  replied  Ninon,  rising  to  go.  "  I 
am  determined  to  leave  town  with  this 
mysterious  gentleman,  whatever  comes,  then 
reveal  to  Paris  the  scant  weight  of  its 
wits." 

"That  would  be  the  act  of  a  friend, 
Ninon,"  Heloise  replied,  now  standing  grace- 
fully beside  a  vase  of  flowers,  from  which 
she  offered  the  choicest  to  her  guest.  "  Pre- 
sent one  of  these  to  Monsieur  de  Chatillon, 
and  assure  him  he  still  hath  friends  in  Paris. 
Who  could  find  a  better  friend  than  Ninon 
de  L'EncIos,  whenever  her  heart  leaneth?" 

"It  will  do  me  great  honour  to  convey 
this  perfumed  message.     Yes,  'tis   my  en- 


302  The  Devil's  Plough 

deavour  never  to  spend  so  much  a  year  that 
there  is  not  something  left  for  a  friend  in 
distress,"  replied  Ninon,  carelessly.  Then, 
with  the  usual  formalities,  the  ladies  sepa- 
rated, and  Paris  was  none  the  wiser  concern- 
ing the  actual  feelings  of  Comtesse  Heloise 
de  Luneville. 

Once  alone,  that  lady  read  her  letter  with 
a  display  of  emotion  whose  depths  Paris 
little  suspected.  She  knelt  before  the  shrine 
erected  in  her  bedchamber,  sacred  to  her 
patron  saint,  and  there  the  passions  that 
only  Gaston  L'Artanges  had  witnessed 
swept  over  the  woman  with  devastating 
force.  Like  winter  storms  come  the  sor- 
rows of  a  worldly  woman  trained  to  self- 
repression  ;  they  break  loose  and  rage  as  do 
the  torrents  of  a  swollen  river  when  its  ice 
melts  under  the  touch  of  the  spring  sun. 
Heloise  prayed  for  her  lover's  life,  for  his 
presence  near  her,  for  some  remission  of 
his  horrible  fate,  —  to  her  New  France 
meant  certain  martyrdom  to  cannibals.  She 
offered  Heaven,  in  return,  the  reward  of  a 
pilgrimage  she  would  willingly  make  to 
far  distant  shrines  if  this  decree  against  her 


The  Devil's  Plough  303 

lover  might  be  set  aside.  But  Heaven  was 
silent. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Virgin  I  do  beseech 
thee,"  she  moaned  on  her  knees  before  the 
image  of  Christ,  "  save  him  from  this  awful 
fate  !  He  hath  been  innocent  of  all  sin  against 
God's  laws.  His  chastity  hath  not  been 
smirched.  Speak  !  Speak  !  Thy  crown  of 
thorns  is  on  his  brow.  Give  it  me  instead  ! 
Is  there  no  longer  a  day  of  miracles  ?  If  my 
own  body  can  redeem  his  from  such  punish- 
ment, strike  me  dead ! "  She  bared  her 
bosom  for  a  blow ;  but  silence  was  her  only 
answer.  Outside  she  heard  a  chambermaid's 
voice  coming  from  a  high  window  in  a  house 
opposite,  calling  "  Gare  Veau  I  Gare  Veau  !  " 
and  several  horsemen  clattered  through  the 
street  while  she  waited  ;  but  still  Heaven 
made  no  sign. 

Then  Heloise  arose  with  determined  com- 
posure. Deliberately  she  cast  down  upon 
the  floor  the  image  of  Christ.  "  I  am  no 
longer  of  the  faith ! "  she  cried.  "  My 
prayer  hath  received  no  answer.  'Tis  Satan 
only  hath  power  to  help  me  !  " 

She  walked  over  to  her  writing  cabinet, 


304  The  Devil's  Plough 

hastily  wrote  a  letter,  then,  her  call  immedi- 
ately bringing  an  attendant,  she  ordered, 
"  Search  through  Paris  for  the  flower-girl, 
Madelon,  until  she  be  found ;  then  bring 
her  to  me." 


Chapter   XVIII 

PIERRE  was  fishing  in  the  Seine  several 
miles  above  Paris,  at  the  first  point 
clear  of  the  city's  garbage,  and  still  within  the 
boundaries  of  Notre  Dame's  preserves.  One 
week  remained  before  he  must  venture,  at 
middle  life,  into  a  strange  land  of  savages, 
whom  he  pictured  as  bearing  close  resem- 
blance to  the  images  of  devils  he  had  studied 
with  interested  horror  in  an  ancient  monas- 
tic transcription  of  the  life  of  St.  Ignatius, 
which  lay  on  the  writing  cabinet  in  Father 
L'Artanges's  antechamber. 

Pierre  had  recently  gone  through  a  storm 
of  troubles,  discomposing  the  usual  calm  of 
his  facial  expression.  The  moment  came 
when  he  must  choose  between  an  occasional 
visit  to  Madelon,  who  now  elected  to  live 
out  her  future  under  the  veil  of  conventual 
life  in  Paris,  and  a  dangerous  existence  be- 
305 


3o6  The  Devil's  Plough 

side  his  hero,  Father  Gaston,  in  New  France. 
It  required  only  one  day  for  Pierre  to  reach 
a  final  decision ;  but  during  those  twelve 
hours,  several  years  of  experience  were  added 
to  his  expression  of  countenance.  Madelon, 
as  the  bride  of  Heaven,  he  argued,  would  be 
safe  from  noble  gallantries,  while  Father 
Gaston,  as  a  missionary,  would  be  perpetu- 
ally exposed  to  indescribable  dangers  ;  there- 
fore, Heaven  called  him  to  go  where  he 
could  be  of  the  best  protective  use.  After 
arriving  at  this  conclusion,  Pierre  nodded 
his  head  once  with  a  guttural  grunt  of  con- 
firmation ;  which  gesture  and  sound,  taken 
together,  settled  any  question  now  and  for 
ever  where  he  was  concerned. 

So  Pierre  sat  blinking  his  eyes  in  the 
early  morning  sunlight  gradually  becoming 
overcast,  giving  his  characteristic  nod  and 
grunt  whenever  a  fish  was  successfully 
landed.  Presently,  upon  looking  up,  he 
saw  Father  Gaston  quite  near,  approach- 
ing along  the  river  path  alone.  Pierre's 
eyes,  at  sight  of  him,  caught  light  as  does 
a  meadow  when  clouds,  floating  above  it, 
part   and    reveal  a  momentary  glimpse  of 


The  Devil's  Plough  307 

the  sun.  Those  were  the  days  when  the 
average  man  criticised  neither  God  nor  his 
own  heroes. 

Father  Gaston,  bareheaded,  according  to 
his  habit  when  in  the  country,  walked  with 
his  eyes  in  custody.  The  indefinable  sad- 
ness of  an  experienced  face  in  repose  gave 
the  lines  of  his  mouth  curves  touching  the 
pity  of  an  observer;  otherwise,  his  entire 
person  emanated  a  repose  previously  un- 
usual to  him.  The  restlessness  of  his  glid- 
ing step  had  sunk  into  that  of  a  resigned 
lag,  suggesting  duty  rather  than  desire.  This 
mood  belongs  to  the  spirited  horse  whose 
will  has  been  successfully  subdued  by  one 
stronger  than  its  own,  after  considerable 
clash  between  the  mind  of  the  animal  and 
its  rider.  Once  conquered,  such  a  horse 
makes  an  invaluable  steed,  and  similarly, 
the  man  of  spirit,  having  finally  bled  his 
own  mouth  with  the  bit  of  circumstances, 
ambles  resignedly  to  his  death. 

"  Deo  gratias,  holy  father,"  spoke  Pierre. 

"  Deo  gratias,"  returned  the  priest.  "  'Tis 
earlier  than  my  habit  of  waking,  Pierre, 
thou   well  know'st;   but  'twas  in  my  mind 


3o8  The  Devil's  Plough 

that  thou  might  be  found  on  a  Friday 
catching  the  food  for  the  day.  Out  beyond 
the  walls  thou  and  I  come  closer  to  an 
understanding.  Thou  art  my  father  con- 
fessor, Pierre,  when  I  have  no  heart  to 
speak  in  stricter  quarters.  The  sun  was 
bright  when  I  left  the  bridge  behind  me. 
It  doth  now  seem  somewhat  overcast." 

"  The  fish  are  jumping  for  rain,"  replied 
Pierre,  "  but  'tis  still  far  distant.  The 
clouds  will   be   rolling  a  great   noise  first." 

"  And  after  the  thunder  will  come  the 
lightning,  that  strikes  some  men  dead, — 
then  peace,  Pierre,  peace !  'Tis  a  good 
word."  Father  Gaston  shaded  his  eyes  with 
one  hand,  and  looked  off  reflectively  at  the 
thickening  sky ;  then  he  sat  down  and 
watched  Pierre  in  silence,  which,  after  some 
time,  he  broke  with  the  words,  "  Pierre,  it 
is  then  settled  that  Madelon  is  to  take  the 
veil  ?     Art  thou  content  ?  " 

"  Yes,  holy  father.  The  maid  is  safer  in 
the  bosom  of  the  Church.  It  seemeth  not 
her  intention  to  wed,  although  the  surgeon- 
barber  and  the  baker  are  both  in  haste  to 
get  her  for  wife.     Of  late  she  hath  settled 


The  Devil's  Plough  309 

it  for  herself  that  she  is  to  be  the  bride  of 
Heaven." 

"  Canst  thou  not  persuade  her  differently  ? 
Madelon  hath  not  the  nature  for  a  nun." 

Pierre  shook  his  head.  "  'Tis  a  direct 
call  from  Heaven,  or  the  maid  hath  some 
mystery  behind  which  my  eyes  do  not 
reach." 

"  Madelon  hath  no  trouble  of  a  serious 
nature  with  the  gallants  ? "  Father  Gaston 
asked,  tentatively. 

"  No,  holy  father,  Madelon  hath  kept  her 
virtue  among  the  streets  of  Paris  as  doth  a 
bird  balance  on  a  cracking  twig,  but  her 
heart  hath  lost  its  gaiety.  She  hath  come 
to  sober  years,  perhaps,  my  little  one.'* 
The  tenderness  in  Pierre's  voice  made  a 
beautiful  sound.  "  She  will  be  safe  in  the 
Church." 

Father  Gaston  looked  not  altogether  con- 
fident of  this  as  a  fact,  but  he  only  said, 
"  Thou  hast  no  vows  taken  to  the  Order. 
Doth  not  thy  conscience  pojnt  toward  a 
tranquil  old  age  in  Madelon's  home,  if 
thou  remain'st  in  France  and  can  dissuade 
her  from  her  present  intention  ?     It  seem- 


3IO  The  Devil's  Plough 

eth  not  justice  for  thee  to  sacrifice  all  to 
follow  me,  good  Pierre." 

Pierre's  mouth  worked  a  bit  tearfully,  so 
that  he  was  forced  to  give  his  lips  one  ad- 
monitory bite.  "  The  maid  hath  made  her 
purpose  plain,  father,  and  thou  art  my  son 
of  the  heart,  —  thou  art  the  well-beloved  of 
the  people.  All  about  the  markets,  yester- 
day, there  was  great  noise  at  thy  going.  'Tis 
said  the  cardinal  hath  a  hand  in  it,  and  the 
people  vow  to  avenge  thee." 

"  Good  people  !  "  mused  Father  Gaston. 
"They  are  my  friends."  Then  he  turned 
quickly  to  Pierre. 

"  Pierre,  thou  hast  seen  many  things  thy 
tongue  can  never  put  into  words.  I  am 
only  just  returned  from  Rome,  as  thou 
know'st.  The  general  was  not  unreasonable 
in  depriving  me  of  my  rectorship.  The 
rules  of  the  Order  must  be  obeyed.  Pierre, 
my  brother,  Paul  de  Chatillon,  is  dead. 
Thou  know'st  this  ?  " 

Pierre  looked  quickly  back  at  him,  then 
as  quickly  away,  but  he  nodded  his  head 
and  grunted,  "  Words  are  devils  best  kept 
out  of  hearing." 


The  Devil's  Plough  311 

"'Tis  thy  lot  in  life  to  know  the  man 
in  me.  How  canst  thou  hold  respect  for 
Father  Gaston  ?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"  Words  are  devils  best  kept  out  of  hear- 
ing," was  all  the  fisherman  would  reply. 

"  Then  'tis  understood  that  Paul  de  Cha- 
tillon  is  dead  between  us  ?  " 

"  Words  are  devils.  Yes,  holy  father, 
thy  brother  hath  long  been  dead.  I  go  with 
you  to  New  France,  where  there  live  no 
ghosts.  Mischief  begins  at  the  tip  of  the 
tongue.    It  must  be  cut  off  in  New  France." 

Father  Gaston  said  no  more. 

"  The  ship  we  journey  in,  —  is  it  of  the 
size  of  a  Seine  boat  ? "  asked  Pierre,  pres- 
ently. 

"  No,  much  larger.  It  hath  great  sails, 
and  many  seamen  to  sail  it.  Thou  hast  no 
fear,  Pierre  ?  Remember,  the  journey  by  sea 
alone  is  the  length  of  many  weeks,  filled  with 
perils.  'Tis  possible  we  may  never  reach 
New  France.     We  are  in  Heaven's  hands." 

"  Where  Father  Gaston  goes,  Pierre  can 
go,"  was  the  man's  only  reply. 

Father  Gaston's  eyes  began  to  smart  at 
these  words.     A  man  with   but  few  friends 


312  The  Devil's  Plough 

has  every  opportunity  to  weigh  and  value 
affection.  "  Pierre,  thou  art  good,"  was  all 
he  could  say. 

"  Hein  !  Behold  the  little  daughter  cross- 
ing the  bridge  down  below !  She  prom- 
ised to  fetch  my  breakfast  before  she  picked 
the  flowers  for  the  market.  The  land  you 
allot  us  yields  sweet  posies,  holy  father." 
Pierre  pointed  to  a  figure  crossing  the 
bridge.  They  said  no  more  until  Madelon 
arrived  where  she  knew  her  father  was  to 
be  found. 

Father  and  daughter  ate  together  the 
comparatively  sparse  breakfast  of  Friday, 
but  Father  Gaston  broke  not  his  fast.  After 
this  was  speedily  accomplished,  Pierre  re- 
turned to  his  fishing,  and  Madelon  gave 
nervous  evidence  of  a  desire  to  speak  pri- 
vately with  Father  Gaston.  A  tree,  recently 
struck  by  lightning,  made  an  excuse  for 
drawing  the  father  away  that  he  might  exam- 
ine its  unfortunate  trunk. 

"  Father  Gaston,"  the  girl  exclaimed, 
once  out  of  her  father's  hearing,  "  for  many 
days  I  have  sought  you  on  the  streets  and 
elsewhere,   that  I   might  convey    to  you   a 


The  Devil's  Plough  313 

letter  of  great  importance  from  the  Comtesse 
de  Luneville.  The  lady  hath  instructed  me 
it  is  a  matter  of  life,  and  no  creature  but 
yourself  must  see  the  letter  in  my  hand." 
She  drew  from  beneath  her  bodice  a  per- 
fumed note  and  handed  it  to  him.  "  The 
lady's  lackeys  hunted  Paris  over  for  me,  and 
at  last  brought  me  to  her.  She  appeared  in 
sore  distress;  her  eyes  were  red  with  weep- 
ing, and  she  hath  said  to  me  no  one  can 
give  her  comfort  but  the  holy  Father  Gas- 
ton. I  have  done  the  lady's  bidding,  for 
my  willingness  gave  her  great  ease  of  mind." 
"  Madelon,  little  one,  I  am  like  the  tree 
stricken  by  the  fire  of  heaven ! "  he  cried, 
holding  the  sealed  letter  in  one  trembling 
hand.  "  Tell  thy  lady  I  no  longer  confess 
the  sinner,  —  that  I  am  bound  on  a  voyage 
of  death."  But  immediately  he  collected 
himself,  for  Father  Gaston  had  recently  re- 
ceived that  strength  derived  from  the  sight 
of  a  direct  road  to  a  night's  lodging  pointed 
out  to  a  foot-worn  traveller.  This  now 
came  to  his  assistance,  and  he  quietly  placed 
the  letter,  unread,  within  the  crown  of  his 
long  hat,  which    he  set  down  on  a  stump 


314  The  Devil's  Plough 

before  speaking  to  Madelon,  with  an  air 
of  deep  personal  interest  in  her  concerns. 

"  Madelon,  thy  father  tells  me  thou  art 
full  determined  to  become  the  bride  of 
Heaven." 

"Yes,  holy  father.  The  Virgin  pointed 
out  the  way  in  my  dreams,  and  I  can  only 
follow."  The  girl's  translucent  eyes  gazed 
over  his  shoulder  into  the  sky. 

"  Madelon,  'tis  my  wish  that  thou  mayst 
never  know  regret  nor  heartache  behind  the 
veil."  He  glanced  at  her  bright  young 
face  pityingly. 

"  Father  Gaston,"  replied  the  girl  sol- 
emnly, "  'tis  yours  to  do  a  great  work  for 
Heaven  in  New  France." 

"  'Tis  mine  to  go  wherever  Heaven  lead- 
eth  me,  and,  once  arrived,  to  do  my  duty," 
Father  Gaston  asserted. 

"In  my  dreams  I  have  seen  you.  Father 
Gaston,  and  my  father,  Pierre,  and  myself, 
a  nun,  saving  the  souls  of  savages.  I  have 
seen  you  suffer  like  the  holy  martyrs,  with 
a  tranquil  spirit,  for  the  divine  grace  was 
upon  you."  Her  face  took  on  the  look  of 
second  sight  inherited    from  her  father, — 


The  Devil's  Plough  315 

something  not  unusual  in  that  age  of  Cath- 
olic mysticism. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  me  crucified  ?  Speak, 
little  one  !  "  He  caught  her  arm  in  eager 
inquiry,  bending  close  to  her  eyes.  She 
stood  perfectly  still  under  his  touch. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  looking  at  the 
trees.  "In  your  face  there  is  the  peace  of 
heaven.  You  have  no  fear.  Your  work  is 
done.  Thousands  have  been  saved  to 
Christ,  and  old  age  is  upon  you ;  but  not 
until  you  have  sailed  down  long  rivers 
and  discovered  new  countries  unknown  to 
France.  'Tis  your  part  to  give  great  ser- 
vice to  the  king ;  'tis  mine  to  order  well  the 
sisters  who  will  nurse  the  sick  and  tend  the 
dying." 

"  Thou  seest  thyself  in  New  France  also, 
little  one  ?  "  he  asked,  watching  her  dreamy 
eyes. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  to  follow  thee.  Father  Gas- 
ton. Wherever  thou  leadest,  I  may  go,  — 
in  the  direction  of  heaven."  She  paused 
suddenly,  took  a  deep  breath,  and  looked 
directly  at  him,  saying,  "  Father  Gaston,  it 
is  not  for  me  to  linger  here,  —  my  flowers 


3i6  The'  Devil's  Plough 

call  me,"  and  she  moved  a  step  away.  But 
he  followed  her. 

"  Madelon,  thou  art  not  to  be  separated 
from  thy  father  ?  That  is  why  thou  art  set 
upon  taking  the  veil  ?  "  But  she  dropped 
her  eyes  at  this  question. 

"  'Tis  the  only  way  I  can  go  to  New 
France  in  safety ;  and  Heaven  hath  directed 
my  thoughts  —  I  swear  to  thee,  Father  Gas- 
ton, Heaven  hath  directed  my  thoughts  !  " 

"Yes,  thou  art  a  good  girl,  Madelon, — 
pious  and  virtuous,"  he  replied,  gently,  in 
the  affectionate  tone  he  often  used  among 
the  people. 

"  You  will  send  for  me.  Father  Gaston  ? 
'Tis  my  intention  to  study  all  diseases  be- 
fore I  go ;  then  I  can  nurse  the  sick  in  New 
France.  'Twill  be  in  your  power  to  send 
for  nursing  sisters."  Her  tone  implored 
him,  and  he  consented  readily. 

Madelon  then  took  from  off  her  silver 
girdle  a  small  metal  box  attached  to  several 
keys  suspended  there,  and  from  out  it  she 
extracted  a  piece  of  paper  compressed  tightly 
within  the  limited  interior.  She  spread  out 
the  paper,  whereon  was  inscribed,  in  Latin 


The  Devil's  Plough  317 

text,  a  prayer,  for  the  saying  of  which,  be- 
fore a  crucifix,  after  having  received  the 
sacrament,  a  full  remission  of  sin  is  granted, 
together  with  the  liberation  of  one  soul  from 
the  pains  of  purgatory. 

"  Take  my  sacred  relic.  Father  Gaston," 
she  beseeched  him,  holding  out  the  paper. 
"  'Tis  a  relic  my  mother  gave  me,  to  pro- 
tect me  from  all  evil.  Wilt  thou  take  it  in 
farewell,  —  from  one  so  humble?  It  will 
protect  thee  from  the  savages." 

"  But  I  cannot  take  thy  precious  relic 
from  thee,  child,"  he  answered,  kindly. 
"  'Twould  be  robbing  thee  of  thy  own  pro- 
tection." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  *Tis  my 
wish,"  she  said. 

"  If 'twill  make  thee  happy,  child,  then  I 
will  bear  thy  relic  to  New  France  with  me, 
and  thank  thee  graciously  for  the  token." 

"  You  have  always  been  kind  to  us  —  to 
all  the  people,"  she  faltered.  "  May  the 
Holy  Virgin  keep  thee  in  her  sacred  arms." 
She  raised  one  corner  of  her  apron  to  her 
eyes,  changing  off  abruptly,  as  she  did  so,  to 
the  question,  "  How  is  Madelon  to  deliver 


3i8  The  Devil's  Plough 

an  answer  to  the  lady's  letter  if  you  read  it 
not,  holy  father  ?  " 

He  caught  a  quick  breath.  "  There  is 
no  answer,"  he  replied,  sternly. 

"  But,  holy  father,  you  have  not  yet  read 
it,"  she  ventured  to  remonstrate. 

"  Madelon,"  he  commanded,  in  a  brief, 
decided  tone,  "  thou  wilt  say  to  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Luneville  that  the  matter  is  settled 
by  the  voice  of  Heaven,  —  that  my  brother, 
Paul  de  Chatillon,  is  dead.  Madelon,  hear- 
est  thou  the  word  ?  Repeat  it  to  me,  — 
Dead ! " 

"  Dead,"  she  echoed  wonderingly. 

"  Say  to  the  lady  that  nothing  can  now 
set  aside  the  decree  of  Heaven.  *  A  Jesuit 
is  as  a  staff  in  an  old  man's  hand,  which  he 
useth  according  to  his  own  convenience.' 
Tell  the  lady  — "  he  paused,  and  changed 
from  bitterness  of  tone  into  the  mellifluous 
cadence  his  gentler  moods  dictated  to  his 
voice.  "  No,  little  one,  tell  the  lady  nothing, 
except  that  Father  Gaston  sails  for  New 
France.  The  storm  approacheth.  Get 
thee  back  to  the  city,  child,  else  it  will  wet 
thee." 


Chapter  XIX 

ON  the  20th  of  July,  1646,  Gaston 
L'Artanges  was  prepared  to  leave 
Paris  the  following  morning,  on  his  way  to 
the  seaport,  where  a  vessel  awaited  him, 
fitted  out  by  the  Jesuits  for  missionary  pur- 
poses in  New  France.  There  was  no  friend 
nor  relative  for  L'Artanges  to  bid  farewell ; 
Madelon  had  already  entered  the  novitiate ; 
his  mare,  Marie,  and  Pierre  he  took  with 
him  to  the  new  world.  The  Sunday  pre- 
vious, when  he  preached  for  the  last  time 
in  Notre  Dame,  crowds  of  the  market  peo- 
ple thronged  the  cathedral,  and  afterward 
lingered  at  the  entrances  until  their  preacher 
should  pass  out  before  them.  During  his 
sermon  that  morning  the  poor  of  Paris 
wept ;  for,  although  his  words  were  carefully 
chosen,  to  express  calm  resignation  and  will- 
ingness for  the  proposed  work  in  a  new 
field,  his  expressive  voice  failed  to  conceal 
319 


320  The  Devil's  Plough 

the  sorrow  of  parting  with  all  those  whose 
good  he  had  nurtured  affectionately  and 
wisely. 

Now  the  final  day  in  Paris  had  come,  and 
L'Artanges  seemed  to  himself  to  be  dream- 
ing strangely.  Action  alone  can  bring  full 
cognisance  of  radical  changes  in  condition. 
His  conventual  routine  had  been  as  yet  in 
no  wise  changed  by  the  order  from  Rome, 
but  to-morrow  he  would  know  the  difference. 
He  had  still  before  him  a  farewell  vesper  ser- 
vice, to  be  held  for  the  novices  and  scholars 
of  the  college,  and  now,  when  he  stood  look- 
ing out  from  his  favourite  window  upon  the 
river  whose  companionship  he  expected  to 
miss,  it  lacked  but  a  few  minutes  before  these 
youths  would  assemble  in  the  refectory,  where 
before  supper  they  were,  at  their  own  special 
request,  to  bid  him  farewell  individually. 

L'Artanges  had  little  heart  for  these  final 
demonstrations ;  he  had  reached  a  state  of 
mind  urging  him  into  perpetual  self-com- 
munion and  prayer.  During  the  weeks  fol- 
lowing the  climax  of  his  passionate  career, 
his  body  expressed  the  inertia  of  an  invalid 
entering  the  first  stages  of  convalescence  ; 


The  Devil's  Plough  321 

his  spirit  ceased  all  violence  of  agitation  ;  he 
appeared  to  have  gained  his  own  soul 
through  loss  of  the  world.  To  one  not 
confirmed  in  Father  Gaston's  faith,  this 
state  of  mind  could  reasonably  be  traced  to 
the  relief  and  security  the  undecisive,  emo- 
tional character  derives  from  a  final  decision 
reached  and  definitely  settled  upon  by  some 
extraneous  will  more  powerful  than  its  own. 
However  that  may  be,  there  ensued  a  great 
calm,  which  fell  over  his  life,  owing  to  his 
belief  that  Heaven  had  spoken,  and  now 
offered  him  daily  strength  and  comfort  in 
his  undertaking. 

L'Artanges  felt  like  one  resurrected,  who 
treads  upon  the  corpses  of  his  own  dead 
passions.  Not  even  the  thought  of  De 
Bouteville  in  hell  had  power  to  arouse  him 
emotionally.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he 
stood  there  at  the  window  overlooking  the 
rose  garden,  and  gazed  long  at  the  western 
horizon,  with  emotions  swept  clear  of 
warmth,  as  is  the  air  of  a  summer  night 
by  the  passing  tempest.  His  eyes  had  lost 
their  red  lights  ;  never  again  was  a  warm 
flame  to  be  detected  in  their  depths. 


32-2  The  Devil's  Plough 

Father  Thomas  soon  entered,  announcing 
by  the  customary  Deo  gratias  the  pupils' 
assemblage  in  the  refectory. 

L'Artanges  immediately  followed  him 
back  through  the  antechamber,  and  took 
a  position  at  the  head  of  the  long  table, 
where  the  young  men  could  conveniently 
pass  before  him  in  double  file.  The  dignity 
of  many  added  years  seemed  to  have  fallen 
upon  the  priest  as  he  stood  there.  Each 
couple  paused  to  receive  his  blessing,  and 
to  offer  him  some  sacred  relic  or  alms  for 
the  missions  of  New  France,  to  bear  with 
him  across  the  seas.  Two  of  the  younger 
lads  wept  bitterly,  without  any  attempt  at 
concealment,  but  L'Artanges  placed  a  hand 
on  each  of  the  flaxen  heads  and  offered 
them  affectionate  consolations  when  they 
knelt  before  him. 

"Thou  must  not  weep  for  my  going, 
my  lads,"  he  said.  "  I  go  to  do  great 
deeds  for  Heaven.  When  thou  art  men, 
remember  thy  former  rector  by  sending 
out  assistance  to  the  missions  of  New 
France." 

"  We  will !  We  will,  holy  father  !  "  they 


The  Devil's  Plough  2'^3 

both  replied,  fervently,  kissing  the  skirt  of 
his  habit. 

They  passed  on,  but  the  emotional  ordeal 
continued  for  the  priest  until  the  last  novice 
was  seated  at  table.  Then  L'Artanges  re- 
tired into  his  antechamber,  where  he  sought 
spiritual  repose  wherewith  to  hold  the  even- 
ing service  in  the  chapel  later  on. 

The  night  was  too  warm  to  admit  of 
burning  logs  in  the  great  fireplace,  which 
looked  empty  and  desolate  as  he  stood 
before  it.  He  shivered  slightly  at  sight  of 
the  vacant  hearth,  and  again  at  sound  of  a 
scratching  he  heard  presently  outside  the 
private  garden  door. 

L'Artanges' s  eyes  deepened  with  fore- 
boding. "  'Tis  but  a  bough  swept  by  the 
wind  against  the  door,"  he  endeavoured  to 
think. 

Again  came  the  sound.  It  was  barely 
twilight  now,  —  who  but  Pierre  would  ven- 
ture to  use  the  old  signal,  even  when  night 
was  falling  ?  He  hesitated,  then  quickly 
unbolted  the  door.  There  before  him  stood 
a  masked  woman,  who  stepped  into  the 
room  without  invitation. 


324  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Bolt  the  door,"  she  commanded,  "  and 
the  other  one,  too."  He  passively  obeyed, 
but  said  nothing.  "  Thou  leavest  for  New 
France  to-morrow?"  asked  Heloise  de 
Luneville,  removing  her  mask.  Her  dress 
was  no  whiter  than  her  face,  and  an  Italian 
sky  starlit  no  bluer  than  her  eyes. 

"  Countess,"  he  replied,  slowly,  standing 
far  off  and  firmly  grasping  his  crucifix, 
"  this  is  no  place  for  thee,  —  thy  reputation 
is  at  stake." 

"  My  reputation  !  "  she  returned,  scorn- 
fully. "  And  of  what  value  is  that,  when  a 
woman  hath  lost  all  else  ?  'Tis  but  as  one 
wave  in  a  great  ocean.  Thou  leavest  for 
New  France  to-morrow,  without  sending  me 
an  answer  to  my  letters  ?  " 

"  Countess,  the  Chevalier  de  Chatillon 
bade  thee  farewell  a  month  ago  in  the 
woods  by  the  river.  He  is  now  dead." 
L'Artanges  seemed  to  be  praying  with  his 
hands  as  they  fingered  the  crucifix. 

"  I  care  naught  for  the  Chevalier  de 
Chatillon  !  'Tis  thee,  —  'tis  thee,  I  crave  !  " 
Heloise  opened  her  arms  to  him. 

"  Countess,  I   am  a  priest."      His   eyes 


The  Devil's  Plough  325 

dropped  to  the  crucifix.  "  Heaven  hath 
spoken." 

"  I  care  naught  for  Heaven  !  "  the  woman 
burst  forth.  "It  hath  no  word  for  me  !  I 
knelt  before  my  shrine,  and  prayed  to  the 
Son  to  crucify  my  body  in  place  of  thine,  — 
I  offered  my  life  for  thine,  but  Heaven  was 
silent." 

"  Heloise ! "  was  all  he  could  say ;  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  began  to  swell. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  go  to  New  France  with- 
out me ! "  she  continued,  gathering  her 
forces.  "I  am  thy  life,  —  thy  very  soul! 
If  thou  art  compelled  to  leave  France,  leave 
as  an  apostate,  with  me  by  thy  side,  to  love 
and  cherish  thee.  Beloved !  Beloved,  take 
me  !  Take  me  !  " 

Under  these  words  his  left  hand  clenched 
until  the  palm  bled  from  the  pressure  of  the 
finger-nails,  but  he  held  the  crucifix  firmly 
with  the  other. 

"  Countess,  listen  to  my  last  words  to 
thee.  Thy  mother  taught  thee  from  the 
cradle  that  'tis  noblest  in  this  life  to  sacrifice 
thine  own  inclinations  to  whatever  is  right. 
Thou  hast  told  me  how  she  held  thee  close 


326  The  Devil's  Plough 

and  taught  thee  such  things.  All  my  life 
it  would  not  have  been  difficult  for  me  to 
do  right,  had  my  mind  been  capable  of 
positive  discrimination ;  but  until  now  I 
have  been  led  a  certain  distance  by  Heaven, 
then  back  again  in  my  own  steps  by  Satan. 
At  last,  when  Heaven  spoke,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  duel,  I  saw  the  flaming  sword 
of  duty,  and  knew  my  appointed  task  to  be 
right.  Then  I  buried  my  love  for  thee  far 
back  in  that  world  of  memory  of  which  I 
wrote  thee.  Dost  thou  come  to  make  my 
duty  more  difficult  in  the  doing  ? "  He 
turned  away  from  her  and  walked  over 
beside  the  window. 

"  I  have  come  to  claim  mine  own  from 
barbarous  savages.  Thou  hast  no  consider- 
ation for  my  own  soul  in  thy  haste  to  save 
red  Indians  who  will  eat  thee.  Dost  thou 
believe  thy  leaving  me  so  will  save  my  soul 
from  hell  ?  Then  I  tell  thee  thou  art  mis- 
taken, Gaston  L'Artanges  !  From  this  day 
forth  I  am  an  infidel,  if  thou  leavest  me 
alone,  —  or  worse,  in  Paris."  The  woman 
had  turned  Jesuit;  the  end  justified  the 
means  in  her  own  sight.    "  Ninon  hath  often 


The  Devil's  Plough  327 

told  me  of  modern  philosophy,  more  con- 
soling than  the  old  faith." 

"  Heloise  !  Heloise  !  "  he  cried,  his  eyes 
distending  with  horror  at  the  thought,  "  thou 
wouldst  not  turn  heretic  ?  " 

"  'Tis  so.  My  mind  turneth  from  a 
faith  in  which  there  is  no  justice."  She 
followed  him  to  the  window,  continuing, 
"  Human  love  hath  given  me  a  fineness  of 
spirit  faith  alone  had  never  touched  upon. 
In  my  life  with  De  Luneville,  whose  very 
presence  made  every  fibre  in  me  thrill  hate- 
fully, I  religiously  sought  heavenly  consola- 
tions, but  every  day  I  felt  myself  sinking 
lower  and  lower  in  the  scale  of  human  be- 
ings. Thy  love  unfolded  my  soul  as  doth 
the  sun  the  flowers  and  trees  in  springtime. 
When  near  thee  I  feel  the  impulse  to  give 
alms  to  the  poor  and  the  lepers,  —  to  do  all 
good  works,  and  think  noble  thoughts ;  but 
in  these  few  weeks  since  thou  hast  deserted 
me"  —  she  paused  one  instant  —  "since 
thou  hast  deserted  me,  I  have  grown  cold 
to  every  generous  act,  and  my  mind  seemeth 
to  gather  scum  as  doth  a  stagnant  pool. 
Hast  thou  no  pity  on  my  soul,  beloved  ^ " 


328  The  Devil's  Plough 

His  head  sank  forward  on  his  breast  in 
the  Hfelong  manner  of  indecision,  and  his 
hps  moved  in  prayer. 

"  Gaston  !  Gaston  !  "  She  repeated  his 
name  with  infinite  sweetness  close  to  his 
face.  "  Thou  art  mine,  Gaston  !  My  soul 
is  in  thy  keeping.  Look  at  me,  and  see  it 
calling  to  thee  through  mine  eyes  !  " 

But  he  kept  his  own  eyes  in  custody, 
until  her  touch  upon  his  arm  sent  quick 
shivers  through  his  blood ;  then  he  looked 
directly  at  her.  Slowly  the  expression  of 
his  face  filled  with  the  supernatural  horror 
shown  before,  when  Satan  appeared  to  him. 
He  stepped  back,  and  raised  his  crucifix  in 
self-defence  of  something  behind  Heloise. 

"  'Tis  Satan  tempting  !  "  he  coweringly 
whispered.  "  I  see  him  there  behind  thee  ! 
Begone,  foul  fiend  !  I,  the  soldier  of  Christ, 
defy  thee  !  "  Heloise,  in  alarm,  turned  to 
look  at  whatever  his  expression  intimated, 
but  saw  nothing  save  the  gathering  shadows. 

Her  action,  for  the  time  being,  dispelled 
his  illusion ;  his  face  resumed  its  previous 
expression  of  mental  distress,  and  he  replied 
to  her,  "  Thy  soul  is  in  Heaven's  keeping, 


The  Devil's  Plough  329 

as  is  mine  own.  'Tis  not  from  me  as  a 
human  being  thou  must  receive  uplifting, 
but  from  me  as  a  priest,  who  would  give 
thee  absolution  and  beg  thee  to  go  and  sin 
no  more." 

At  this  she  fell  on  her  knees  before  him. 
"  Gaston  !  Gaston  !  thou  hast  not  the  heart 
to  leave  me !  Take  me  with  thee.  I  will 
be  thy  wife  in  love  sacred  as  one  mortal  can 
feel  for  another.  In  some  new  world  we 
shall  find  happiness  together.  I  have  no 
fear  of  poverty  nor  hardships  —  'tis  only 
loneliness  fills  me  with  cowardice."  She  wept 
before  him,  kneeling  there  on  the  hard 
floor,  and  at  that  sound  his  hand  loosened 
its  grip  upon  the  crucifix,  and  the  old  look 
of  human  tenderness  filled  his  eyes. 

"  Heloise !  Heloise  !  thou  must  not 
weep  !  "  He  bent  over  her  and  she  caught 
one  of  his  hands  in  hers. 

"  Gaston,  thou  wilt  not  depart  to-mor- 
row ? " 

"There  is  no  other  way,"  he  replied, 
gently. 

"  Thou  wilt  leave  my  soul  to  perish  ? " 
One  of  her  arms  crept  up  toward  his  neck. 


33.0  The  Devil's  Plough 

"  Thou  wilt  repent  of  that  feeling,  He- 
loise,  and  turn  thy  mind  upon  holy  works, 
where  thou  wilt  find  peace,"  he  replied, 
making  no  resistance  to  her  touch. 

"  Thou  lovest  me,  Gaston  ?  "  She  bent 
his  head  closer  to  her  own  face  with  one 
encircling  arm. 

"  Thy  lover  is  dead,"  he  murmured, 
faintly,  as  if  falling  into  lethargy. 

"  Thou  art  mine,  —  mine  !  "  she  cried, 
triumphantly.  "  Thou  wilt  not  go  to  New 
France  without  me.     I  love  thee,  Gaston  !  " 

The  man  gazed  into  her  bewildering  eyes. 
His  will  was  slipping,  slipping,  into  her 
control.  "  If  thou  dost  go  —  "  he  began, 
weakly,  when  through  the  antechamber 
burst  the  tones  of  the  chapel  organ.  Ves- 
pers were  beginning,  and  some  one  was 
summoning  him  from  without  the  door. 

The  voices  of  choristers  arose  in  the  dis- 
passionate quality  of  ancient  church  music, 
reaching  L'Artanges's  susceptible  musical 
comprehension,  converted  by  his  imagination 
into  a  warning  of  angels'  voices. 

"  Come  with  me,  Gaston !  We  will  go 
out  together  by  the  garden  gate.     Twilight 


The  Devil's  Plough  331 

hath  fallen, —  thy  disappearance  will  be  laid 
to  some  miracle.  Come,  beloved  of  my 
soul ! " 

But  Gaston  L'Artanges  no  longer  heard 
her  voice ;  he  stood  in  her  upHfted  arms 
listening  to  the  distant  music. 

"  'Tis  the  voice  of  angels  I  hear."  He 
spoke  as  one  far  removed  from  earth. 
"  They  call  me  to  New  France !  Holy 
Mother,  I  see  thy  face !  I  am  thy  obedient 
son  ! 

He  attempted  to  stand  erect,  but  the  lady 
held  him  despairingly.  "  Gaston  !  Gaston  ! 
thou  art  not  going  !  " 

The  organ  rolled  its  sacred  tones  full  and 
dominant  upon  his  ears,  and  he  made  one 
supreme  effort,  sustained  by  its  inspiration. 

"  Take  thy  arms  from  about  me,  woman  ! 
Thou  art  a  temptress.  I  go  to  New  France. 
I  obey  the  call  of  Heaven." 

At  sound  of  his  voice,  transformed  be- 
yond recognition,  she  fell  back  upon  the 
floor,  defeat  huddling  about  her,  and  some 
sense  of  the  miraculous  showed  in  her  blank 
stare  at  him. 

Out  toward  the  refectory  door  he  walked. 


22"^  The  Devil's  Plough 

holding  high  before  his  face  the  crucifix. 
"  What  profiteth  it  any  man  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ? "  he  quoted, 
in  firm,  ringing  tones.  "  I  choose  the  way 
of  thorns,  and  thou  of  roses  !  ^d  majorem 
Dei  gloriam."  Without  giving  another  look 
back  upon  her,  but  holding  his  eyes  wrapped 
about  some  heavenly  vision,  L'Artanges 
passed  out  of  the  room  and  on  into  the 
chapel,  bearing  his  cross  erect. 

The  woman  lay  there  alone  where  he  left 
her,  beating  the  hard  floor  with  her  hands, 
in  the  midst  of  music  rising  and  falling  in 
rhythmic  swells,  bearing  no  consolation  to 
her  desolate  soul. 


Chapter  XX 

WRITTEN  after  fifteen  years,  to  Com- 
tesse  Heloise  de  Luneville. 

**New  France, 
**  Mission  de  St.  Marie  du  Saut. 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  :  — I  know  not  with  what 
grace  at  this  time  of  life  you  will  read  a  letter  written 
from  the  grave  of  your  youth,  but  my  work  for  Christ 
includes  the  usage  of  my  influence  toward  pious  living 
wheresoever  my  words  may  reach. 

.  **  It  hath  recently  come  to  me,  through  voyagers  from 
France,  that  your  life  about  the  court  of  the  Grand  Mon- 
arch groweth  not  in  grace  with  the  years.  This  report 
fails  to  secure  credence  in  my  mind,  but  my  growing 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart  reveals  to  me  the  spiritual 
dangers  surrounding  any  lady  situated  as  you  are. 

**  The  egotism  of  all  men  may  be  speaking  from  within 
me  when  my  conscience  suggests  my  own  former  mis- 
demeanours toward  you  as  having  been  the  instrument 
Satan  may  have  employed  in  beguiling  you  from  the 
straight  and  narrow  path.  But,  owing  to  this  sting  of 
conscience,  I  now  venture  to  implore  of  you  a  moment 
of  serious  consideration  pertaining  to  the  higher  life  of  the 
333 


334  The  Devil's  Plough 

soul,  with  which  your  thoughts  were  greatly  concerned 
in  your  youth.  I  have  felt  that  perhaps  some  news, 
bearing  upon  my  own  life  and  the  spiritual  results  of  my 
work  in  New  France,  may  influence  a  lady  of  such  fine 
native  goodness  to  bend  her  path  in  safer  directions. 

"  The  mission  where  I  am  now  stationed  is  situated  at 
the  very  outlet  of  Lake  Superior,  a  lake  of  whose  enormity 
you  may  judge  when  I  say  it  alone,  of  the  many  great 
lakes  hereabouts,  nearly  equals  in  size  the  whole  of 
France.  This  situation  is  noted  as  a  fishing-place,  which 
greatly  pleaseth  my  good  Pierre,  who  hath  gone  with  me 
faithfiiUy  through  cruel  hardships,  and  is  now  a  vigorous 
old  man,  whose  health  hath  improved  yearly  under  the 
influence  of  constant  life  in  the  open  air  (as  did  my 
own),  and  whose  heart  is  now  made  happy  by  the 
recent  arrival  of  his  daughter,  Madelon  (whom  you 
remember),  but  lately  sent  as  mother  superior  to  the 
Ursuline  convent  in  Quebec.  The  rapids  here  are  filled 
with  white  fish,  attracting  hither  large  numbers  of  Indians, 
whose  principal  pursuits  are  hunting  and  fishing. 

"  Surrounding  this  mission  live  many  permanent 
Indian  residents  of  the  Ojibway  tribe,  called  generally 
Sauteurs,  because  their  bark  lodges  are  clustered  at  the 
foot  of  our  rapids,  and  because  they  have  under  my  per- 
suasions embraced  the  faith  of  Christ. 

*'  In  order  to  write  you  this  letter,  it  is  necessary  to 
place  the  inkhom  close  beside  the  logs  crackling  in  the 
hearth,  owing  to  the  intense  cold  of  winter  ;  otherwise, 
the  ink  would  certainly  freeze.  The  snow  mantles  for- 
ests, earth,  and  streams,  drifting  to  the  height  of  a  man's 


The  Devil's  Plough  335 

middle  just  outside  our  doors.  Through  many  years  of 
such  winters  I  have  continued  my  labours,  under  the 
personal  guidance  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  who  hath  appeared 
to  me  frequently,  ever  showering  coiu^age  upon  my  spirit, 
appalled  at  certain  times,  when  beset  by  the  savages,  and 
while  suffering  their  tortures  bestowed  upon  our  bodies. 

♦*  Of  physical  suffering  I  have  had  my  full  share,  but 
I  can  truthfully  say  that  every  wound  or  torture  of  my 
body,  during  these  past  years  of  wanderings  among 
tribes  and  missions,  hath  only  strengthened  my  soul  in 
its  pilgrimage  toward  heaven.  Eternal  peace  hath  fallen 
upon  me,  and  my  gratitude  to  Heaven,  for  appointing  me 
this  great  work,  increaseth  with  every  soul  saved  to 
Christ. 

"By  patient  endeavour  I  have  gained  considerable 
influence  among  the  savage  tribes,  but  occasionally  the 
fear  beareth  hard  upon  me  lest  lack  of  encouragement 
from  the  king  and  others  high  in  France  will  result  in 
ultimate  destruction  of  the  Jesuit  missions  in  the  new 
world.  Our  Order  is  forced  to  enter  into  mercantile 
negotiations  with  the  Indians  and  fur-traders  for  furs  and 
commodities,  in  hope  of  profit,  so  poor  have  we  become 
of  late.  Black  sheep  bleat  in  every  fold ;  accordingly, 
some  of  our  brothers  commit  pecuniary  indiscretions  re- 
dounding little  to  the  credit  of  the  Order. 

**  Ovdng  to  your  recent  advancement  at  court,  your 
influence  in  our  behalf  might  easily  be  exerted,  for  the 
greater  glory  of  God  and  your  own  spiritual  benefit. 
You  were  formerly  eager  to  help  the  poor ;  the  Jesuits  in 
New  France  are  often  more  needy  than  the  poor  of  Paris. 


22^  The  Devil's  Plough 

**  Of  late  years  my  mind  hath  been  much  taken  up 
with  prospects  of  discovery.  The  Chevalier  de  La 
Salle,  who  boasts  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance  at 
court,  hath  with  admirable  energy  done  considerable 
toward  the  discovery  of  the  rivers  and  country  west  and 
south  of  us.  In  the  course  of  my  expeditions,  bent 
toward  the  founding  of  missions  among  distant  tribes, 
during  which  I  was  miraculously  saved  from  death,  I 
met  many  voyagers,  and  among  them  one  who,  having 
encountered  a  remote  tribe  which  had  wandered  as  far 
east  as  La  Pointe  Mission,  was  told  of  the  great  river 
they  had  crossed  during  their  journey  eastward. 

**  The  search  for  copper  mines  doth  engross  the  ener- 
gies of  many  brothers,  but  after  once  hearing  of  this 
marvellous  stream,  which  it  is  conjectured  hath  some 
outlet  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  my  mind  had  no  peace 
until  I  finally,  at  great  pains,  secured  the  necessary  funds 
for  a  voyage  of  discovery,  whose  object  was  the  great 
river,  called  by  the  Illinois  Indians,  Mississippi. 

"  It  was  on  the  day  of  the  Immaculate  Conception  of 
the  Holy  Virgin  I  embarked  in  two  birch  canoes,  accom- 
panied by  five  men,  —  among  them  Pierre.  We  pro- 
vided ourselves  with  a  full  supply  of  smoked  meat  and 
Indian  corn  for  food,  and  above  all  else  I  placed  our 
voyage  under  the  protection  of  the  Holy  Virgin  Immacu- 
late, promising  that,  if  she  granted  us  the  favour  of  dis- 
covering this  great  river,  I  would  give  it  the  name  of  the 
Conception. 

•*  We  coasted  the  northern  shore  of  Lake  Michigan, 
propelling  our  light  canoes  with  paddles  such  as  you  have 


The  Devil's  Plough  337 

never  seen.  When,  at  night,  we  landed,  and  drew  our 
canoes  up  on  shore,  then  built  camp-fires  at  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  the  friendly  Indians  along  that  strand  would 
listen  to  the  tale  of  our  intended  explorations  with  aston- 
ishment, and  make  every  attempt  to  dissuade  us  from 
our  enterprise.  They  related  that  the  banks  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi were  inhabited  by  ferocious  tribes,  who  put  every 
stranger  to  death  ;  but  I  instructed  them  more  fully  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  faith,  and  we  proceeded. 

*•  These  Indians,  as  in  the  case  with  many  of  the  sav- 
age tribes,  are  possessed  with  an  abiding  superstition 
concerning  a  certain  demon  living  in  all  strange  waters, 
and  whose  roar  can  be  heard  at  a  great  distance.  This 
arises  from  a  great  and  marvellously  beautiful  fall  of 
water  at  the  extreme  southern  limit  of  the  lakes,  whose 
noise  is  considerable  and  could  readily  be  mistaken  by 
superstitious  minds  for  that  of  a  monster. 

**  Our  voyage  proceeded  without  great  delay  at  any 
point.  We  soon  reached  the  mission  at  the  head  of 
Green  Bay,  and  entered  the  Fox  River.  With  great 
difficulty  we  then  dragged  our  canoes  up  the  tumultuous 
rapids,  and  crossed  a  lake  called  Winnebago,  from  which 
point  the  river  wound  quietly  through  an  endless  growth 
of  wild  rice,  upon  which  fed  innumerable  birds  of  great 
beauty.  Flat  country  spread  away  on  either  hand, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  groves  where  browsed  deer 
and  elk. 

"  Early  in  June  we  reached  an  Indian  village,  whose 
situation  had  been  chosen  vdth  excellent  taste.  There 
lived  Miamis  and  Kickapoos,  who,  to  my  great  delight. 


22^  The  Devil's  Plough 

had  planted  a  cross  in  their  midst,  decorated  with  many 
dressed  deer-skins,  red  girdles,  bows  and  arrows,  hung 
there  as  offerings  to  what  they  call  the  Great  Manitou 
of  the  French,  —  Manitou  meaning,  in  their  language, 
God  or  Spirit.  They  received  us  with  much  tribal  cere- 
mony, and  upon  our  departure  sent  with  us  two  of  their 
own  number  as  guides. 

**  From  that  point  the  river  twisted  among  lakes  and 
marshes  choked  with  wild  rice,  and,  without  the  aid  of 
these  Indian  guides,  it  is  doubtful  that  we  could  have 
proceeded  farther.  At  last  this  river  brought  us  to  a 
portage,  where  we  understood  that,  by  carrying  our 
canoes  some  distance  across  the  level  country,  partially 
marshlands,  we  could  launch  ourselves  upon  waters  bear- 
ing us  we  knew  not  whither.  This  we  did  without 
abatement  of  courage,  but  with  great  wonder  in  our 
hearts  at  the  goodness  of  Heaven.  When  the  promised 
waters  arose  before  us,  we  fell  upon  our  knees  in  adora- 
tion of  the  Holy  Mother,  who  had  guided  our  footsteps. 

**  Fairly  launched  upon  this  tranquil  stream,  we 
glided  peacefully  along,  seeing  no  human  being  on  either 
bank,  but  prodigal  vegetation  and  many  strange  animals 
abounded.  Beneath  the  glowing  stars  we  slept  after  our 
meal  of  venison  and  bison-flesh,  and  then  smoked  our 
pipes,  —  a  habit  acquired  from  the  Indians,  and  which 
giveth  a  man  profound,  healthy  slumbers.  For  many 
days  we  journeyed  in  this  manner,  unmolested.  It  was 
to  me  an  experience  of  perfect  repose  and  happiness. 

**  Finally,  one  day  when  the  heat  of  summer  fell  fierce 
upon    us,    we   saw  hills  looming  in   the  distance,    and 


The  Devil's  Plough  339 

directly  before  our  eyes  a  great  current,  swift  and  power- 
ful, coursing  athwart  our  own.  Our  voyage  was  suc- 
cessful !  This,  we  were  assured  by  the  voice  of  Mary, 
the  Mother,  was  the  great  river.  Innagine  my  sensa- 
tions !  They  were  well  worth  years  of  suffering  to 
attain. 

**  Turning  into  this  stream,  in  a  southern  course,  we 
paddled  along  through  a  strange  solitude,  unrelieved  by  a 
single  trace  of  man.  Strange  fish  were  drawn  into  our 
nets,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river  grazed,  in  herds, 
most  fierce  and  ugly  animals  of  a  brown  colour,  showing 
disagreeable  humps  on  their  backs,  and  staring  at  us  out 
of  dull,  stupid  eyes  from  beneath  a  tangled  mane,  coarse 
and  unbeautiful.  Naturally  we  advanced  with  extreme 
caution,  but  for  a  fortnight  journeyed  along  without 
encountering  a  human  being. 

'*  Ultimately  we  beheld  an  Indian  village,  from  out 
which  swarmed  the  Indians  in  great  commotion  at  sight 
of  us.  They  made  peaceful  signs,  and  so  attracted  us 
to  the  shore.  As  we  approached  four  of  their  chief 
men  advanced  cautiously  to  meet  us,  holding  up  toward 
the  sun  two  calumets  (pipes  offered  in  peace  to  strangers), 
decorated  with  feathers.  They  stopped  and  gazed  at  us 
as  do  little  children  at  sight  of  something  strange.  We 
landed  and  I  addressed  them,  whereupon  they  offered 
me  the  pipes,  which  once  having  smoked  with  an  Indian 
counts  you  his  friend.  Then  they  conducted  us  to  the 
village,  where  the  chief  did  honour  to  us  in  a  singular 
fashion.  Before  a  large  wigwam  (their  kind  of  house, 
triangular  and  easily  transported)   he  stood  naked,  hold- 


340  The  Devil's  Plough 

ing  up  both  hands  in  protection  to  his  eyes.  *  French- 
men,' he  called  out,  in  salutation,  *  how  bright  the  sun 
shines  when  you  come  to  visit  us  !  All  our  village 
awaits  you,  and  you  shall  enter  our  wigwams  in  peace.' 
These  friendly  Indians  entertained  us  royally,  after  sav- 
age fashion,  and  sent  us  on  our  way  ladened  with  their 
gifts.  All  of  the  tribes  we  encountered  were  not  equally 
well-disposed  toward  the  French,  but  we  escaped  with- 
out great  vicissitudes,  compared  with  those  of  previous 
voyages  we  had  undertaken. 

"  Past  the  outlets  of  many  small  streams  we  drifted, 
but  upon  reaching  the  mouth  of  the  large  river,  Illinois, 
we  were  met  with  unmistakable  signs  of  Satan's  dominion 
in  the  wilderness.  High  up  on  the  flat  face  of  a  huge 
rock  we  saw,  painted  in  bright  red,  black,  and  green 
colours,  a  pair  of  monsters,  each  as  large  as  a  calf,  with 
horns  like  a  deer,  red  eyes,  a  beard  like  a  tiger,  and  a 
frightfiil  expression  of  countenance.  The  face  of  each 
was  something  like  that  of  a  man,  the  body  covered  with 
scales,  and  the  tail  so  long  that  it  passed  entirely  around 
the  body,  over  the  head,  and  between  the  legs,  ending 
like  that  of  a  fish.  These  horrible  creations  were  Indian 
gods,  made  by  the  savages  for  the  purpose  of  worship. 

"  At  the  mouth  of  another  great  stream  we  narrowly 
escaped  death  by  the  turbulence  with  which  the  tributary 
river  flowed  into  the  Mississippi.  Our  light  boats  were 
whirled  about  in  the  swollen  current  like  leaves  in  a  wind- 
storm ;  but  again  the  Holy  Mother  protected  us.  After 
many  experiences,  of  a  varied  nature  and  of  extreme  in- 
terest, but  of  too  great  length  to  admit  of  narration  here. 


The  Devil's  Plough  341 

sickness  broke  out  in  our  party,  warning  us  to  turn  our 
faces  homeward.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn  before  we 
again  reached  the  mission,  where  rejoicing  over  our  re- 
turn greeted  us,  for  we  were  reasonably  supposed  to  be 
dead. 

*♦  My  own  health  is  not  of  the  best  this  winter,  but  it 
is  my  purpose,  with  the  Virgin's  succour,  to  make  a  re- 
turn voyage  to  the  Mississippi  and  found  there  a  mission, 
to  be  called  the  Immaculate  Conception. 

**  It  hath  pleased  me  greatly  to  have  been  made  a  suc- 
cessful instrument  of  Heaven  in  bringing  to  the  attention 
of  the  French  nation  some  knowledge  of  the  great  coun- 
try which  is  their  possession.  If  the  king  saw  best  to 
favour  our  enterprise,  we  would  secure  to  France  the 
most  wonderful  country  in  the  world  ;  but  as  we  now 
stand,  a  small  band  of  pioneers  with  small  money  and  but 
limited  means  of  military  protection,  it  doth  sometimes 
occur  to  me  that  some  other  monarch,  with  greater  de 
sires  for  colonisation,  may  seize  upon  this  continent,  at 
great  cost,  to  France.  At  present  it  is  our  plain  duty  to 
pursue  the  regeneration  of  the  savages,  a  work  which, 
with  all  its  discouragements,  doth  progress  satisfactorily  ; 
meantime,  it  may  become  necessary  for  me  to  journey  to 
France  for  the  purpose  of  setting  these  matters  plainly 
before  the  Grand  Monarch. 

**  In  the  name  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  fraternal  love  I 
do  bear  thee,  I  beseech  thee,  countess,  to  exert  thy  in- 
fluence at  court  in  our  behalf,  and  by  so  doing  turn  thy 
thoughts  even  more  to  the  higher  life  of  self-sacrifice  for 
the  greater  glory  of  God.     As  age  descendeth  upon  me  I 


342  The  Devil's  Plough 

grow  more  and  more  certain  of  a  future  filled  with  heav- 
enly joys,  for  every  man  and  woman  who  in  this  life 
giveth  up  the  ways  of  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  and  work- 
eth  for  Christ.  'Tis  my  sacred  wish  to  meet  thy  soul  in 
paradise.  Consider,  countess,  art  thou  pursuing  the  course 
that  leadeth  there  ?  Live  so  that  thine  eyes  can  be  up- 
lifted to  thy  Maker's  without  shame  at  any  moment  thou 
may'st  be  called  into  his  presence  ;  then  thy  soul  will 
know  peace. 

**With  lasting  esteem  and  a  blessing  upon  thee,  I 
remain  with  deep  respect,  countess, 

**  Father  Gaston." 


THE    END. 


L.  C,  Page  and  G)mpany's 
Announcement  of 
List  of  New  Fiction* 

Philip  Win  wood,  (eoth  thousand.)  A  Sketch  •* 
THE  Domestic  History  of  an  American  Captain  in 
THE   War    of    Independence,   embracing   events   that 

OCCURRED     between     AND     DURING    THE    YEARS     I763    AND 

1785  IN  New  York  and  London.  Written  by  his 
Enemy  in  War,  Herbert  Russell,  Lieutenant  in  the 
Loyalist  Forces.  Presented  anew  by  Robert  Neilson 
Stephens,  author  of  "A  Gentleman  Player,"  "An  Enemy  to 
the  King,"  etc. 

With  six  full-page  illustrations  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages   .        .        .        $i-SO 

"  One  of  the  most  stirring  and  remarkable  romances  that  has  been  published  in  a 
long  while,  and  its  episodes,  incidents,  and  actions  are  as  interesting  and  agreeable  as 
they  are  vivid  and  dramatic.  .  .  .  The  print,  illustrations,  binding,  etc.,  are  worthy 
of  the  tale,  and  the  author  and  his  publishers  are  to  be  congratulated  on  a  literary 
work  of  fiction  which  is  as  wholesome  as  it  is  winsome,  as  fresh  and  artistic  as  it  is 
interesting  and  entertaining  from  first  to  last  paragraph." —  Boston  Tinus. 

Breaking  the  Shackles.    By  frank  barrett. 

Author  of  "  A  Set  of  Rogues." 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  350  pages      .        fi.50 

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author's  triumph  is  the  greater  in  the  unquestionable  interest  and  novelty  which  he 
achieves.  The  pictures  of  prison  life  are  most  vivid,  and  the  story  of  the  escape 
most  thrilling." —  The  Freeman's  Journal,  London, 

The    Progress   of    Pauline    Kessler.    By 

Frederic  Carrel. 
Author  of  "  Adventures  of  John  Johns." 
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A  novel  that  will  be  widely  read  and  much  discussed.  A  power- 
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her.  The  story  is  crisply  written  and  told  with  directness  and  in- 
sight into  the  ways  of  social  and  political  life.  The  characters  are 
strong  types  of  the  class  to  which  they  beloJig. 


L.   C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 


Ada  Vernham,  Actress.    By  richard  marsh. 

Author  of  "  Frivolities,"  «•  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost,"  etc 
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This  is  a  new  book  by  the  author  of  "  Frivolities,"  which  was 
extremely  well  received  last  season.  It  deals  with  the  inside  life  of 
the  London  stage,  and  is  of  absorbing  interest. 

The  Wallet  of  Kai  Lung.  By  ernest  bramah. 

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teller, who  meets  with  many  surprising  adventures.  The  style 
suggests  somewhat  the  rich  Oriental  coloring  of  the  Arabian 
Nights. 

Edward  Barry :  south  sea  pearler.    By  louis 

Becke. 
Author  of  "  By  Reef  and  Palm,"  «  Ridan,  the  Devil,"  etc. 
With  four  full-page  illustrations  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
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An  exceedingly  interesting  story  of  sea  life  and  adventure,  the 
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This  is  the  first  complete  novel  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Becke,  and 
readers  of  his  collections  of  short  stories  will  quickly  recognize  that 
the  author  can  write  a  novel  that  will  grip  the  reader.  Strong,  and 
even  tragic,  as  is  his  novel  in  the  main,  "  Edward  Barry  "  has  a 
happy  ending,  and  woman's  love  and  devotion  are  strongly  por- 
trayed. 

Unto  the  Heights  of  Simplicity.    By  jo 

HANNES   ReIMERS. 

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We  take  pleasure  in  introducing  to  the  reading  public  a  writer  of 
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poetic  idiom  and  subtle  imaginative  flavor.  In  the  present  story,  he 
treats  with  strength  and  reticence  of  the  relation  of  the  sexes  and 
the  problem  of  marriage.  Certain  social  abuses  and  false  standards 
of  morality  are  attacked  with  great  vigor,  yet  the  plot  is  so  interest- 
ing for  its  own  sake  that  the  book  gives  no  suspicion  of  being  a 
problem  novel.  The  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  are  idyllic  in 
their  charm,  and  form  a  fitting  background  for  the  love  story. 


LIST    OF   NEW   FICTION 


The  61ack  Terror,    a  romance  ©f  Russia.    By  John 
K.  Leys. 
With  frontispiece  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        fi.50 

A  stirring  tale  of  the  present  day,  presenting  in  a  new  light  the 
aims  and  objects  of  the  Nihilists.  The  story  is  so  vivid  and  true  to 
life  that  it  might  easily  be  considered  a  history  of  political  intrigue 
in  Russia,  disguised  as  a  novel,  while  its  startling  incidents  and 
strange  denouement  would  only  confirm  the  old  adage  that  "  truth 
is  stranger  than  fiction,"  and  that  great  historical  events  may  be 
traced  to  apparently  insignificant  causes.  The  hero  of  the  story 
is  a  young  Englishman,  whose  startling  resemblance  to  the  Czar  is 
taken  advantage  of  by  the  Nihilists  for  the  furtherance  of  their 
plans. 


The  Baron's  Sons.  By  maurus  jokai. 

Author  of  "  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The   Green   Book,"  "  Pretty 
Michal,"  etc.     Translated  by  Percy  F.  Bicknell. 

Library    lamo,   cloth   decorative,  with  photogravure 
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An  exceedingly  interesting  romance  of  the  revolution  of  1848, 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  at  the  courts  of  St.  Petersburg,  Moscow, 
and  Vienna,  and  in  the  armies  of  the  Austrians  and  Hungarians. 
It  follows  the  fortunes  of  three  young  Hungarian  noblemen,  whose 
careers  are  involved  in  the  historical  incidents  of  the  time.  The 
story  is  told  with  all  of  Jokai's  dash  and  vigor,  and  is  exceedingly 
interesting.  This  romance  has  been  translated  for  us  directly  from 
the  Hungarian,  and  never  has  been  issued  hitherto  in  English. 


Slaves  of  Chance.    By  ferrier  langworthy. 

With  five  portraits  of  the  heroines,  from  original  drawings  by 

HieL 
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As  a  study  of  some  of  the  realities  of  London  life,  this  novel  is 
one  of  notable  merit.  The  slaves  of  chance,  and,  it  might  be  added, 
of  temptation,  are  five  pretty  girls,  the  daughters  of  a  pretty  widow, 
whose  means  are  scarcely  sufficient,  even  Uving  as  they  do,  in  a 
quiet  way  and  in  a  quiet  Tvondon  street,  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
Dealing,  as  he  does,  with  many  sides  of  London  life,  the  writer 
sketches  varied  types  of  character,  and  his  creations  are  cleverly 
defined.  He  tells  an  interesting  tale  with  delicacy  and  in  a  fresli^ 
attractive  style. 


L.   C.   PAGE   AND   COMPANY  S 


Her  Boston  Experiences.  By  Margaret  allston 

(nom  de  plume). 
With  eighteen  full-page  illustrations  from  drawings  by  Frank 

O.  Small,  and  from  photographs  taken  especially  for  the 

book. 
Small  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  225  pages        .        $1.25 

A  most  interesting  and  vivacious  tale,  dealing  with  society  life 
at  the  Hub,  with  perhaps  a  tinge  of  the  flavor  of  Vagabondia.  The 
story  has  appeared  serially  in  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  where  it 
was  received  with  marked  success.  We  are  not  as  yet  at  liberty  to 
give  the  true  name  of  the  author,  who  hides  her  identity  under  the 
pen  name,  Margaret  Allston,  but  she  is  well  known  in  literature. 

Memory  Street.    By  martha  baker  dunn. 

Author  of  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty,"  etc. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  •        .        .        $1.25 

An  exceedingly  beautiful  story,  delineating  New  England  life  and 
character.  The  style  and  interest  will  compare  favorably  with  the 
work  of  such  writers  as  Mary  E.  Wilkins,  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin, 
and  Sarah  Orne  Jewett.  The  author  has  been  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  leading  magazines,  and  the  interest  of  her  previous 
work  will  assure  welcome  for  her  first  novel. 

Winifred,    a  story  of  the  chalk  cuffs.  By  s. 

Baring  Gould. 
Author  of  "  Mehala,"  etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages .        $1.50 

A  striking  novel  of  English  life  in  the  eighteenth  century  by  this 
well  known  writer.  The  scene  is  laid  partly  in  rural  Devonshire, 
and  partly  in  aristocratic  London  circles. 

At  the  Court  of  the  King :  being  romances  of 

France.    By  G.  Hembkrt  Westley,  editor  of  "  For  Love's 

Sweet  Sake." 
With  a  photogravure  frontispiece  from  an  original  drawing. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .        .        $1.25 

Despite  the  prophecies  of  some  literary  experts,  the  historical 
romance  is  still  on  the  high  tide  of  popular  favor,  as  exemplified  by 
many  recent  successes.  We  feel  justified,  consequently,  in  issuing 
these  stirring  romances  of  intrigue  and  adventure,  love  and  war,  at 
the  Courts  of  the  Frwach  Kinf  s. 


LIST   or   NEW   FICTION 


Qod*S  Rebel.      By  Hulbert  Fulle*. 
Author  of  "  Vivian  of  Virginia." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  375  pages  .        .        .        ^1.25 

A  powerful  story  of  sociological  questions.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
Chicago,  the  hero  being  a  professor  in  "  Rockland  University," 
whose  protest  against  the  unequal  distribution  of  wealth  and  the 
wretched  condition  of  workmen  gains  for  him  the  enmity  of  the 
"  Savior  Oil  Company,"  through  whose  influence  he  loses  his  posi- 
tion. His  after  career  as  a  leader  of  laborers  who  are  fighting 
to  obtain  their  rights  is  described  with  great  earnestness.  The 
character  drawing  is  vigorous  and  varied,  and  the  romantic  plot 
holds  the  interest  throughout.  The  Albany  Journal  is  right  in 
pronouncing  this  novel  "  an  unusually  strong  story."  It  can  hardly 
fail  to  command  an  immense  reading  public. 

A  Qeorg^ian  Actress.  By  Pauline  Bradford  Mackh. 
Author   of  "  Mademoiselle    de    Bemy,"   "  Ye    Lyttle    Salem 

Maide,"  etc. 
With  four  full-page  illustrations  from  drawings  by  E.  W.  D. 

Hamilton, 
library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  300  pages     .        $1.50 

An  interesting  romance  of  the  days  of  George  III.,  dealing  with 
the  life  and  adventures  of  a  fair  and  talented  young  play-actress, 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  England  and  America.  The  succeM  of 
Miss  Mackie's  previous  books  will  justify  our  prediction  that  a  new 
volume  will  receive  an  instant  welcome. 


Qod  — The  King — fly  Brother,    a  romance. 

By  Mary  F.  Nixon. 
Author  of  "  With  a  Pessimist  in  Spain,"  "  A  Harp  of  Many 

Chords,"  etc. 
With  a  frontispiece  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        $1.25 

An  historical  tale,  dealing  with  the  romantic  period  of  Edward 
the  Black  Prince.  The  scene  is  laid  for  the  most  part  in  the 
sunny  land  of  Spain,  during  the  reign  of  Pedro  the  Cruel  — 
the  ally  in  war  of  the  Black  Prince.  The  well-told  story  records 
the  adventures  of  two  young  English  knight-errants,  twin  brothers, 
whose  family  motto  gives  the  title  to  the  book.  The  Spanish  maid, 
the  heroine  of  the  romance,  is  a  delightful  characterization,  and  the 
love  story,  with  its  surprising  yet  logical  denouement,  is  enthralling. 


L.   C.    PAGE    AND   COMPANY  S 


Punchinello.       By  Florence  Stuart. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  325  pages      .        $1.50 

A  love  story  of  intense  power  and  pathos.  The  hero  is  a  hunch- 
back (Punchinello),  who  wins  the  love  of  a  beautiful  young  girl. 
Her  sudden  death,  due  indirectly  to  his  jealousy,  and  the  discovery 
that  she  had  never  faltered  in  her  love  for  him,  combine  to  unbalance 
his  mind.  The  poetic  style  relieves  the  sadness  of  the  story,  and 
the  reader  is  impressed  with  the  power  and  brilliancy  of  its  concep- 
tion, as  well  as  with  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the  execution. 

The    Golden    Fleece.      Translated  from  the  French  of 
Amedee  Achard,  author  of  "The  Huguenot's  Love,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  450  pages .        $i-5o 

Amedee  Achard  was  a  contemporary  writer  of  Dumas,  and  his 
romances  are  very  similar  to  those  of  that  great  writer.  "The 
Golden  Fleece  "  compares  favorably  with  "  The  Three  Musketeers  " 
and  the  other  D'Artagnan  romances.  The  story  relates  the  adven- 
tures of  a  young  Gascon  gentleman,  an  officer  in  the  army  sent  by 
Louis  XIV.  to  assist  the  Austrians  in  repelling  the  Turkish  Invasion 
under  the  celebrated  Achmet  Kiuperli. 

The  Good  Ship  York.    By  w.  clark  russell. 

Author  of  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor,"  "  A  Sailor's  Sweet- 
heart," etc. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages         $i-50 

A  romantic  and  exciting  sea  tale,  equal  to  the  best  work  of  this 
famous  writer,  relating  the  momentous  voyage  of  the  clipper  ship 
York,  and  the  adventures  that  befell  Julia  Armstrong,  a  passenger, 
and  George  Hardy,  the  chief  mate. 

"  Mr.  Russell  has  no  rival  in  the  line  of  marine  fiction." — Mail  and  Exprea, 

Tom  Ossington's  Ghost.    By  richard  marsh. 

Author  of  "  Frivolities,"  "  Ada  Vernham,  Actress,"  etc.     Illus- 
trated by  Harold  Pifford. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  325  pages      .        $1.50 

"  I  read  '  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost '  the  other  jiight,  and  was  afraid  to  go  up-stairs 
In  the  dark  after  it. "  —  fruth. 

"  An  entrancing  book,  but  people  with  weak  nerves  had  N-^ter  not  read  it  at 
night."  —  To-day. 

"  Mr.  Marsh  has  been  inspired  by  an  entirely  original  idea,  and  has  worked  it  out 
with  great  ingenuity.  We  like  the  weird  but  not  repulsive  story  better  than  anything 
he  has  ever  done."  —  World. 


LIST   OF   NEW   FICTION 


The  Qlory  and  Sorrow  of  Norwich.     By 

M.  M.  Blake. 
Author  of  "The   Blues   and   the   Brigands,"   etc.,  etc,   with 

twelve  full-page  illustrations. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  315  pages      .        $1.50 

The  hero  of  this  romance,  Sir  John  de  Reppes,  is  an  actual 
personage,  and  throughout  the  characters  and  incidents  are  instinct 
vdth  the  spirit  of  the  age,  as  related  in  the  chronicles  of  Froissart. 
Its  main  claim  for  attention,  however,  is  in  the  graphic  representa- 
tion of  the  age  of  chivalry  which  it  gives,  forming  a  series  of  brilliant 
and  fascinating  pictures  of  mediaeval  England,  its  habits  of  thought 
and  manner  of  life,  which  live  in  the  mind  for  many  a  day  after 
perusal,  and  assist  to  a  clearer  conception  of  what  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  picturesque  epochs  of  history. 

The  nistress  of  flaidenwood.    By  hulbirt 

Fuller. 
Author  of  "  Vivian  of  Virginia,"  "  God's  Rebel,"  etc. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        ^^1.50 
A  stirring  historical  romance  of  the  American  Revolution,  the 
scene  of  which  for  the  most  part  being  laid  in  and  about  the  debatable 
ground  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York  City. 

Dauntless,     a  tale  of  a  lost  cause.  By  Captain  Ewan 

Martin. 
Author  of  "  The  Knight  of  Kmg's  Guard." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages,  illustrated .        ^1.50 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  days  of  Charles  I.  and  Cromwell  in 
England  and  Ireland.  In  its  general  character  the  book  invites 
comparison  with  Scott's  "  Waverley."  It  well  sustains  the  reputa- 
tion gained  by  Captain  Martin  from  "  The  Knight  of  King's  Guard." 

The    Flame   of    Life.       (Il  Fuoco.)     Translated  from 

the  Italian  of  Gabriel  D'Annunzio,  author  of  "  Triumph  of 

Death,"  etc.,  by   Kassandra    Vivaria,   author  of    "Via 

Lucis." 

Library  lamo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        I1.50 

This  is  the  first  volume  in  the  Third  Trilogy,  "The  Romances 
of  the  Pomegranate,"  of  the  three  announced  by  the  great  Italian 
writer.  We  were  fortunate  in  securing  the  book,  and  also  in  securing 
the  services  as  translator  of  the  talented  author  of  "  Via  Lmcts," 
herself  an  Italian  by  birth. 


*9>^ 


Selections  from 

L.  C.  Page  and  Compan/s 

List  of  Fiction, 

An  Enemy  to  the  King.  {Thirty-jiftk  Thousand.) 

From    the    Recently   Discovered    Memoirs    of   the 

SiKUR    DE    LA    ToURNOIRE.        By    ROBERT     NEILSON     STE- 
PHENS. 

Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top,  460  pages     .        $1.50 

"  Brilliant  as  a  play  ;  it  is  equally  brilliant  as  a  romantic  novel." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  Those  who  love  chivalnr,  fighting,  and  intrigue  will  find  it,  and  of  good  quality, 
in  this  book."  —  Mew  York  Critic. 

The    Continental    Dragoon.     (Twenty-ji/t&  Thousand.) 

A  Romance  of  Philipse  Manor   House,  in  1778.    By 

Robert  Neilson  Stephens. 

Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King." 

Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .         .         .         #1.50 

"  It  has  the  sterling  qualities  of  strong  dramatic  writing,  and  ranks  among  the 
most  spirited  and  ably  written  historical  romances  of  the  season.  An  impulsive  ap- 
preciation of  a  soldier  wlio  is  a  soldier,  a  man  who  is  a  man,  a  hero  who  is  a  hero, 
IS  one  of  the  most  captivating  of  Mr.  Stephens's  charms  of  manner  and  style."  — 
Boston  Herald. 

The  Road  to  Paris.       {Twenty-first  Thousand.)     By  Robert 
Neilson  Stephens. 
Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  ICing,"  "  The  Continental  Dra- 
goon," etc. 
Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  500  pages   .        .        .        $1.50 

"Vivid  and  picturesque  in  style,  well  conceived  and  full  of  action,  the  novel  is 
absorbing  from  cover  to  cover."  — Philadelfihia  Public  Ledger. 

"  In  the  line  of  historical  romance,  few  books  of  the  season  will  equal  Robert 
Neilson  Stephens's  'The  Road  to  Paris.'" —  Cincinnati  Times-Star. 


L.   C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 


A  Gentleman  Player.   ^Thirty-fifth  Thousand)  ms 

Adventures  on  a  Secret  Mission  for  Queen  Eliza- 
beth.    By  Robert  Neilson  Stephens. 

Author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  "  The  Continental  Dra- 
goon," "  The  Road  to  Paris,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  450  pages  .         .         .        {j^i-SO 

"  A  thrilling  historical  romance.  ...  It  is  a  well-told  tale  of  mingled  romance 
and  history,  and  the  reader  throughout  unconsciously  joins  in  the  flight  and  thrills 
with  the  excitement  of  the  dangers  and  adventures  that  befall  the  fugitives."  — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

" '  A  Gentleman  Player '  is  well  conceived  and  well  told."  —  Boston  Journal. 

Rose    ^    Charlitte.       {.Tenth  Thousand.)      An  AcaDIEN 

Romance.    By  Marshall  Saunders. 

Author  of  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  500  pages  .        .        .        $1-50 

"A  very  fine  novel  we  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  .  .  .  one  of  the  books  that 
stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imagination  and  remain  imbedded  in  the  memory 
long  after  the  covers  are  closed."  —  Literary  World,  Boston, 


Deficient  Saints,    a  Tale  of  Maine.    By  Marshall 

Saunders. 

Author  of  "  Rose  "k  Charlitte,"  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages  .         .        .        |!i-SO 

"  The  tale  is  altogether  delightful ;  it  is  vitally  charming  and  expresses  a  quiet 
power  that  sparkles  with  all  sorts  of  versatile  beauty."  —  Boston  Ideas: 


Her  Sailor,    a  novel.    By  Marshall  Saunders. 

Author  of  "  Rose  d  Charlitte,"  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  325  pages         $^-^S 

A  story  of  modern  life  of  great  charm  and  pathos,  dealing  with 
the  love  affairs  of  an  American  girl  and  a  naval  officer. 

"  A  love  story,  refreshing  and  sweet."  —  Uiica  Herald. 

"The  wayward  petulance  of  the  maiden,  who  half-resents  the  matter-of-course 
wooing  and  wedding,  her  graceful  coquetry,  and  final  capitulation  are  prettily  told, 
making  a  fine  character  sketch  and  an  entertaining  story."  —  Bookseller,  Ckicai,o 


LIST    OF    FICTION 


Pretty  iVlichAl.    a  romance  of  Hungary.  By  Maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author  of  "  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The  Green  Book,"  "  Midst  the 
Wild  Carpathians,"  etc. 

Authorized  translation  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain 

Illustrated  with  a  photogravure  frontispiece  of  the  great  Mag- 
yar writer. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  325  pages  .        .        .        <5i.5o 

"  It  is  at  once  a  spirited  tale  of  '  border  chivalry,'  a  charming  love  story  full  of 
(enuine  poetry,  and  a  graphic  picture  of  life  in  a  country  and  at  a  period  both  equally 
new  to  English  readers."  —  Literary  World,  London, 

Midst  the  Wild  Carpathians.    By  maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author  of  "  Black  Diamonds,"  "  The  Lion  of  Janina,"  etc 

Authorized  translation  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain. 

Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        #1.25 

"  The  story  is  absorbingly  interesting  and  displays  all  the  virility  of  Jokai's 
powers,  his  genius  of  description,  his  keenness  of  characterization,  his  subtlety  of 
humor,  and  his  consummate  art  in  the  progression  of  the  novel  from  one  apparent 
climax  to  another."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

In  Kings'  Houses,    a  romance  or  the  reign  of 

Queen  Anne.    By  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 
Author  of  "  A  Cathedral  Pilgrimage,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  400  pages  .        .        .        $1.50 

"  We  close  the  book  with  a  wish  that  the  author  may  write  more  romances  of  the 
history  of  England  which  she  knows  so  well."  —  Bookman,  New  York. 

"  A  fine  strong  story  which  is  a  relief  to  come  upon.  Related  with  charming, 
simple  art."  —  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

Omar  the  Tentmaker.    a  romance  of  old 

Persia.    By  Nathan  Haskell  Dole. 
Illustrated  by  F.  T.  Merrill. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .        $1.50 

"The  story  itself  is  beautiful  and  it  is  beautifully  written.  It  possesses  the  true 
spirit  of  romance,  and  is  almost  poetical  in  form.  The  author  has  undoubtedly  been 
inspired  by  his  admiration  for  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  to  write  this  story  of 
which  Omar  is  the  hero." —  Troy  Times. 

"  Mr.  Dole  has  built  a  delightful  romance." —  Chicago  ChronicU. 

"  It  is  a  strong  and  vividly  written  itery,  full  of  the  life  aod  spirit  of  roB 
N*vi  Orleans  Picayune. 


L.   C.    PAGE   AND   COMPANY  S 


iVLandcrS.      a  tale  of  Paris.    By  Elwyn  Barron. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages         $1.50 

"  Bright  descriptions  of  student  life  in  Paris,  sympathetic  views  of  human  frailty, 
and  a  dash  of  dramatic  force,  combine  to  form  an  attractive  story.  The  book  contains 
some  very  strong  scenes,  plenty  of  life  and  color,  and  a  pleasant  tinge  of  humor. 
...  It  has  grip,  picturesqueness,  and  vivacity." —  The  Speaker,  London. 

"A  study  of  deep  human  interest,  in  which  pathos  and  humor  both  play  their 

Earts.    The  descriptions  of  life  in  the  Quartier  Latin  are  distinguished  for  their 
'eshness  and  liveliness."  —  St.  James  Gazette,  London. 
"  A  romance  sweet  as  violets."  —  Town  Topics,  New  York, 


In    Old    New   York,     a  romance.    By  Wilson  Bar- 
rett, author  of  "  The  Sign  of  the  Cross,"  etc.,  and  Elwyn 
Barron,  author  of  "  Manders." 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  350  pages        jfi.50 

"  A  novel  of  great  interest  and  vigor."  —  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  '  In  Old  New  York '  is  worthy  of  its  distinguished  authors."  —  Chicago  Times- 
Herald. 

"  Intensely  interesting.  It  has  an  historical  flavor  that  gives  it  a  substantial  value." 
—  Boston  Glob*. 


The    Golden    DO^.      a    romance   of   Quebec.     By 

William  Kirby. 

New  authorized  edition. 

Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  620  pages  .        .        .        #1.25 

"  A  powerful  romance  of  love,  intrigue,  and  adventure  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV. 
and  Mme.  de  Pompadour,  when  the  French  colonies  were  making  their  great 
struggle  to  retain  for  an  ungrateful  court  the  fairest  jewels  in  the  colonial  diadem  of 
YTOcaat."  —  New  York  Herald. 


The  Knight  of  King's  Guard,  a  romance  of 

THE  Days  of  the  Black  Prince.    By  Ewan  Martin. 
Illustrated  by  Gilbert  James. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        if  1.50 

An  exceedingly  well  written  romance,  dealing  with  the  romantic 
period  chronicled  so  admirably  by  Froissart.  The  scene  is  laid  at  a 
Ijorder  castle  between  England  and  Scotland,  the  city  of  London, 
and  on  the  French  battle-fields  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers.  Edward  the 
Third,  Queen  Philippa,  the  Black  Prince,  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  are 
all  historical  characters,  accurate  reproductions  of  which  give  life 
and  vitality  to  the  romance.  The  character  of  the  hero  is  especially 
well  drawn. 


LIST   OF   FICTION 


The  Making  of  a  Saint.    By  w.  sommset 

Maugham. 
Illustrated  by  Gilbert  James. 
Library  12010,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .        .        .         I1.50 

"  An  exceedingly  strong  story  of  original  motive  and  design.  .  .  .  The  scenes  are 
imbued  with  a  spirit  of  frankness .  .  .  and  in  addition  there  is  a  strong  dramatic 
flavor."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  A  sprightly  tale  abounding  in  adventures,  and  redolent  of  the  spirit  of  medueval 
Italy."  —  Brooklyn  Titnes. 

Friendship  and   Folly,     a  novel.    By  maria 

Louise  Pool. 
Author  of  "  Dally,"  "  A  Redbridge  Neighborhood,"  "  In  a  Dike 

Shanty,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        I1.25 

"The  author  handles  her  elements  with  skilful  fingers  —  fingers  that  feel  their 
way  most  truthfully  among  the  actual  emotions  and  occurrences  of  nineteenth 
century  romance.  Hers  is  a  frank,  sensitive  touch,  and  the  result  is  both  complete 
and  full  of  interest."  —  Boston  Ideas. 

"  The  story  will  rank  with  the  best  previous  work  of  this  author." — Indianapolis 
N*ws. 


The  Rejuvenation  of  Miss  Semaphore. 

A  Farcical  Novel.     By  Hal  Godfrey. 

Illustrated  by  Etheldred  B.  Barry. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        II1.25 

"  A  fanciful,  laughable  tale  of  two  maiden  sisters  of  uncertain  age  who  are  induced, 
by  their  natural  longing  for  a  return  to  youth  and  its  blessings,  to  pay  a  large  sura 
for  a  mystical  water  which  possesses  the  value  of  setting  backwards  the  hands  of 
time.  No  more  delightfully  fresh  and  original  book  has  appeared  since  '  Vice 
Versa'  charmed  an  amused  world.  It  is  well  written,  drawn  to  the  life,  and  full  of 
the  most  enjoyable  humor."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


The  Paths  of  the  Prudent.     By  J.  S.  Fletcher. 
Author  of  "  When  Charles  I.  Was  King,"  "  Mistress  Spitfire,"  ttc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  300  pages  .        .        .        #1.50 

"  The  story  has  a  curious  fascination  for  the  reader,  and  the  theme  and  characters 
are  handled  with  rare  ability."  —  Scotsman. 

"  Dorinthia  is  charming.  The  story  is  told  with  great  humor."  —  Pall  MaU 
Gaaette. 

"  Aa  excellently  well  told  story,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  perfectly  sustained  t* 
tht  very  •ad." — PtmeA, 


L.    C.    PAGE    AND   COMPANY  S 


Cross  Trails.  By  victor  waite. 

Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  450  pages  .         .         .        |i-50 

"  A  Spanish- American  novel  of  unusual  interest,  a  brilliant,  dashing,  and  stirring 
story,  teeming  with  humanity  and  life.  Mr.  Waite  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  the 
strength  with  which  he  has  drawn  his  characters."  —  SaM  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Every  page  is  enthralling." — Academy. 

"  Full  of  strength  and  reality."  —  Athenie-um. 

"  The  book  is  exceedingly  powerful."  —  Glasgow  Herald. 


BijI 


i  the  Dancer.  By  james  blythe  patton. 

Illustrated  by  Horace  Van  Rinth. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  350  pages  .         .        .         $1.50 

"  A  novel  of  Modem  India.  .  .  .  The  fortunes  of  the  heroine,  an  Indian  nautch- 

firl,  are  told  with  a  vigor,  pathos,  and  a  wealth  of  poetic  sympathy  that  makes  the 
ook  admirable  from  first  to  last."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 
"A  remarkable  book."  —  Bookman. 
"  Powerful  and  fascinating."  — Fall  Mall  Gazette. 
"A  vivid  picture  of  Indian  life." — Academy,  London. 


Drives  and  Puts,    a  book  of  golf  stories.    By 

Walter  Camp  and  Lilian  Brooks. 
Small  i2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  250  pages    .         $1-25 

"  It  will  be  heartily  relished  by  all  readers,  whether  golfers  or  not."  —  Boston 
Ideas. 

"Decidedly  the  best  golf  stories  I  have  read." — Milwaukee  Journal. 

"  Thoroughly  entertaining  and  interesting  in  every  page,  and  is  gotten  out  with 
care  and  judgment  that  indicate  rare  taste  in  bookmaking." — Chicago  Saturday 
Evening  Herald. 


Via   LtUCis.      By  Kassandra  Vivaria. 
With  portrait  of  the  author. 
Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  480  pages   .        .        .        5i-S0 

'"Via  Lucis'  is  —  we  say  it  unhesitatingly — a  striking  and  interesting  produc- 
tion."—  London  Athenaum. 

"Without  doubt  the  most  notable  novel  of  the  summer  is  this  strong  story  of 
Italian  life,  so  full  of  local  color  one  can  almost  see  the  cool,  shaded  patios  and  the 
flame  of  the  pomegranate  blossom,  and  smell  the  perfume  of  the  grapes  growing  on 
the  hillsides.  It  is  a  story  of  deep  and  passionate  heart  interests,  of  fierce  lovas  and 
fiercer  hates,  of  undisciplmed  natures  that  work  out  their  own  bitter  destiny  of  woe. 
There  has  hardly  been  a  finer  piece  of  portraiture  than  that  of  the  child  Arduina,  — 
the  child  of  a  sickly  and  unloved  mother  and  a  cruel  and  vindictive  father,  — a  mor- 
bid, (^ueer,  lonely  little  creature,  who  is  left  to  grow  up  without  love  or  training  of 
any  kind."  —  New  Orleans  Picayunt. 


A     000  126  530     t 


